The Sound of Silence
by Hollow Nightmare
Summary: When Jane doesn't fare too well in the aftermath of Red John's death, Lisbon must decide whether or not to help him. Jane/Lisbon
1. Volume One

**Author's Note: Oh, my God. That finale. There are no words. (Get the pun?) So yeah, this will probably have about nine or ten chapters (or volumes, since I couldn't resist the play on words). I doubt I'll get them out before the next episode, but here's to hoping! And please review, they make my day. :)**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume One**

_Silent, silent night_

_Quench the holy light_

_Of thy torches bright_

_- William Blake, "Silent, Silent Night"_

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><p>It's nearly midnight when Lisbon gets the news.<p>

Her eyelids flutter, eyelashes brushing against her cheeks, eyebrows furrowing in pain. She blinks, and wakes up to find herself in a hospital bed. The room is dark, moonlight from the window creeping in to meet the fluorescent crack under the door. There is a machine by her starched, stiff bed, beeping slowly and incessantly, clear yet quiet in the silent room. She can smell disinfectant and sharp chemicals that travel straight to her brain and make her feel nauseated.

She tries to sit up, and feels a tug on her arm - an IV drip. She reaches over with her other arm, and sucks in a startled breath through her grit teeth. _Fuck_. Fuck, that hurt. What the -?

She was shot.

She remembers now. Hightower, and Grace, and _O'Laughlin__ - _and fuck, she was shot - and Jane, on the phone, and _Red John on the phone_ - and her shoulder aches like a bitch -

"Boss?"

Cho's voice startles her enough that she jumps, and immediately regrets it. Fire whips across her shoulder and collar bone, and she can't quell the high whimper that comes from somewhere in her throat.

"Hold on, I'll get a nurse."

He stands up from the chair in the dark corner and before she can say a word he has crossed the room and exited through the door. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to create more pain to distract her from the worse pain, and takes short, shallow breaths until he returns with a nurse.

"You're awake," states the short, balding man, reading from a chart instead of looking her in the eye. "Your drugs have probably worn off. I'll give you some morphine."

Within minutes the pain starts to seep away, dissipating into thin air, and the male nurse disappears along with it. She allows herself to scowl at his retreating back for just a second, before bringing herself back to reality.

"Cho," she croaks, and her voice cracks.

He's by her bedside a second later, handing her a glass of water that she takes with her good hand. The water is cool and silky as it flows down her throat, soothing her raw nerves. She downs it in three gulps.

"Want more?" he asks.

"Nah, I'm alright," she replies, sobering up as she looks at him. "What happened?"

"You passed out before the ambulance could arrive. Severe blood loss. But the operation to remove the bullet was successful, and they said you should regain full use of your arm within a few months."

A few months. Oh, God.

"Van Pelt?" she asks tentatively.

"She's fine. Upset. It's understandable."

She remembers the sound as O'Laughlin's gun went off, the sheer shock and disbelief. Remembers the pane radiating throughout her shoulder, remembers the look on Van Pelt's face, the complete and utter heartbreak.

Oh, God. That ridiculous pink bridesmaid's dress. She won't have to wear it anymore.

She isn't sure whether that makes her want to laugh or cry.

She ducks her head and scrunches her eyes shut, only just now beginning to feel the throbbing behind her temple. Isn't morphine supposed to obliterate any headaches? Do tension headaches count?

"_Dammit_," she curses quietly. "I can't believe it was him. All this time. And Van Pelt - poor Grace..."

"Boss."

Cho's voice is uncharacteristically hesitant as he interrupts her. Unease crawls over her skin, creeping into her veins. The look on his face doesn't reassure her at all.

"What?" she asks with trepidation.

"It gets worse." He pauses, simultaneously reluctant and resigned to saying the words. "We got Red John."

Her heart starts to thud, pounding so hard against her ribs it is almost painful. She feels nauseated again, sick with nerves and fear. Her lips tremble before she forces herself to speak, her voice breaking.

"That's... that's good news, isn't it?"

But it isn't. She doesn't need to hear his words, doesn't need to see his face. She knows what comes next, knows exactly what he is going to say - but _no_, it just can't be true, it just _can't_ be -

"Jane killed him," Cho says bluntly.

"No."

She shakes her head, refusing to look at him. She wishes she could cover her ears like a child, but she can't lift her left arm.

No.

"Shot him in the shopping mall," continues Cho, unable to even attempt to make the words come out gentle. "He's dead. Jane's been arrested."

"No," repeats Lisbon, stronger this time.

She shakes her head, blinking fast and then screwing her eyes shut. Her heart is racing so fast she wonders if she's having a heart attack. She presses her palm against her sternum, pushing hard, trying to ease the ache that has settled in her bones.

_No._

"I wish you were right," continues Cho desperately.

The look on his face is all it takes for her to snap. Because this is _real_ - and she can't breathe, she can't breathe, she can't _think_ -!

A hot flush spreads down her shoulders, a creeping paralysis that that locks her in place, and she can't move, and her heart is racing, and her blood is boiling, and something cracks in her chest, and her guts are rolling, rolling, rolling -

"Cho," she rasps.

He looks alarmed. If she was coherent that may have made her laugh. But she's not, she's _sicksicksick - _and he must see it on her face, because he grabs the trashcan and is by her bed within seconds, just in time for her to vomit into it.

She can barely even taste the bile in her throat, her mind is so scattered. Everything comes at her in flashes - bombs and phone calls and guns and Hightower and Red John and _Jane_ and more guns and shopping malls and _Jane -_

"You okay, boss?" he asks, holding the trashcan in one hand and her hair in the other.

She dry heaves a couple of times, then nods weakly and pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Here."

Cho hands her a glass of water and she gargles and spits into the trashcan. He puts it on the floor and watches her as she leans back. She feels weak and shaky, so shaky that every cell in her body seems to be buzzing. She's dizzy, and still nauseous, and everything is so jumbled up, and she can't see properly, can't hear properly -

And is that Cho's voice, all rippled and warped?

"ShOUld I caLL A nursssEE?"

Everything sounds so distorted she can hardly understand what he's saying, the machine by her bed beeping relentlessly, loudly, overpowering all other sounds. The room spins back and forth around her, dark and grey and cold, so cold, and she feels seasick - and oh, God, _Jane_ -

"Boss?"

"No," she whispers, closing her eyes. "No, I'm alright. Just - just give me a minute."

"I don't think -"

The door opens before he can finish his sentence, and the same balding nurse from before enters, frowning. "What's going on here?"

"I'm fine," she whispers, ducking her head, though she feels anything but fine.

"The machines are going nuts," continues the nurse, coming to stand by her bed. "I thought I told you she needs to stay calm!"

He rounds on Cho, who crosses his arms and stares the man down.

"You did."

"Well, she is obviously not calm! What did you say to her?"

"That's confidential."

Lisbon tries to focus on their words, struggles to hear past her own breathing, but concentrating is so hard, and she just feels blank, numb, and so very cold.

"You need to leave," stresses the nurse, flailing his arms. "Her body's under enough stress as it is, I can't risk you adding any more -"

"I'm a CBI agent, we're discussing the case -"

"I don't care," cuts in the nurse, standing in front of Lisbon's bed as if to block Cho from coming near. "You can discuss all you want later, but she just got out of surgery and she needs to _rest_. Now leave, please."

Cho looks at Lisbon, asking silently whether she wants him to stay or go, but she can't bring herself to look back. She gazes blankly at the wall, still trying to take deep breaths, reeling from the news.

"I'm alright," she whispers. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes," pushes the nurse, "during visiting hours."

Cho waits another moment, an internal debate raging within him, before he picks up his jacket off the back of the chair and heads toward the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says to Lisbon.

"Bye."

Her response is more air than sound.

As soon as Cho is gone the nurse turns back to her, and pushes something into her IV drip. Lisbon doesn't even pay attention, and barely hears as he says, "I'm just giving you a sedative. You need to get some rest, okay? No more stress today."

She remembers to nod dutifully. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes what seems like a mere second later, the nurse is already gone. She rolls onto her good side, careful not to jar her injury, and tries to curl up into a ball.

She stills feel shaky and light-headed, cold prickles sliding under her skin, into her veins. She's freezing, but can't find the will to bring the blanket higher. She stares at the wall, unblinking, trying to keep her insides still, shivering.

The room is silent, broken only by the quiet beeps, but her breathing is loud in her ears, wavering and scratchy and irregular. She can't even begin to think. Her mind floats somewhere hazily, hovering around the topic but refusing to touch down. It scoots close, then recoils before it can land.

She feels numb.

And freezing. And shaking, and sick, and dizzy.

Is she in shock?

But that doesn't make any sense, because she's not even surprised, not really. Jane has told her he planned to kill Red John. He has told her numerous times, his crazy eyes staring at her with a frightening intensity that she had tried to deny. She _knows_ how he gets around Red John - but she had thought - maybe - that he might -

...not do it.

That he might... see the consequences.

That he might care, about something other than his vengeance.

About justice, about the law. About... her.

Oh, God. _Jane_...

She presses her shaking hand against her eyes, rubbing so hard it almost hurts. There's something rising within her, bubbling up inside of her, threatening to spill over - she clamps down on the sob that threatens to escape, and clenches her chattering teeth.

She will not cry over him.

She will _not_.

He brought this upon himself, and he deserves the repercussions -

She can't even finish the sentence. Because... she's not sure he really does deserve them. Logically he does, she knows this objectively, but she doesn't... _feel it_. She feels...

Sick.

And angry.

And so, so sad.

And _confused_.

It should be clear. She should be angry at him, but resigned, accepting, because she should have expected it. She should want him to get a life sentence, should want to never see him again, should want to yell at him and then be _done_ with him, forever -

Except just the thought makes her curl in on herself and close her hot, burning eyes, a sharp knot of fear tightening in her chest, by her heart.

She can't see him, but she can't _not_ see him. She wants to throttle him, wants to yell in his face until she runs out of breath, until he finally sees just what he has done - but she wants to help him. She wants to save him, any way she can, even if he doesn't deserve it, because he's... he's her best friend. Is it sad to admit that her best friend is a colleague she rarely sees outside of work?

"_I'll call you back,"_ he had said.

Those were the last words he had said to her, and he hadn't followed through with them, and maybe he never will.

He should be here with her now, sitting by her bed, teasing her about that ridiculous bridesmaid's dress and driving the nurses crazy. She has never felt lonelier in her life, and she wonders now if this feeling will ever leave. If the aching hole in her chest will ever disappear - and how can it, when Jane will spend the rest of his life in prison and she'll be alone again?

She didn't know she could feel this way, could experience such a bittersweet victory - because she didn't actually win, in the end, did she?

Eight years. Eight goddamn years she had been trying to prevent this, and she had _failed_.

This was supposed to be a _good_ night, a beautiful, perfect, heavenly night. She remembers earlier that day, remembers the vaguest sense of hope burning through the air, the light that seemed just barely within their reach.

But along with this night came the darkness, and the cold, and the silence. It quashed any hope of solace she had, leaving only bitter disappointment and stale resignation and gut-wrenching sadness.

_Oh God, Jane, what have you done?_

She hugs her empty chest for hours and stares blankly into the silence of the night.


	2. Volume Two

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! Please continue to leave them. :)**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Two**

_We become silent about things that matter because we can't quantify how a heart aches or loves or breaks._

_- Anonymous_

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><p>Lisbon can't bring herself to visit him.<p>

How could she, when she can't even walk the flight of stairs up to the attic? When just looking at the couch in the bullpen causes a hurricane of emotions to flurry through her?

She skirts around the attic staircase, leaving as much room as possible between her feet and the steps, and stubbornly refuses to so much as glance at Jane's brown leather couch.

Her own new couch in her office gets boxes and stacks of files dumped on top, until she can just barely see the white fabric peeking through the gaps. When even that starts to antagonize her, she throws a blanket on top so that it's completely hidden.

She arranges for his - mostly unused - desk to be moved to another division, where it will actually get some use, and sends along his throw blanket as well, as an added bonus for whoever is to receive the items. She'd rather not know who that is, to be honest.

She pushes Jane's teapot and cup and saucer to the back of the cabinet, hidden behind an array of old, chipped mugs that no one will ever use.

His almost complete sudoku book gets thrown in the trash, then pulled back out, ripped to shreds in a fit of temper, and thrown back in.

And just like that, it's as if Jane had never worked for them at all.

(Or so she tells herself.)

Lisbon is, if nothing else, very good at suppressing things. Even if it's her own memories, her own feelings.

Jane doesn't exist to her.

She goes back to work, but she's assigned mainly to desk duty until she regains use of her left arm. Her physical therapy is going well, though that may be mostly to do with the fact that her pain medication leaves her feeling numb all of the time. She'll have to wear a sling around her left arm for two months, to keep the weight off of her shoulder. That'll get annoying fast - but hey, at least she'll still _have_ an arm to use, in the end.

A week goes by.

She spends her days at the CBI building, locked in her office, reading and rereading case files and reports until the words all start to blend together, drowning out her own thoughts. Perfect.

She gets twice as much work done in half the normal time, and celebrates by going home, turning on the TV so loud she can't think (definitely not the news channel), and eventually passing out.

Van Pelt takes some time off. Rigsby goes to see her every evening after leaving the CBI, like clockwork, and Lisbon pretends not to notice. She hangs the bridesmaid dress at the back of her closet, out of sight, and refuses to think about angry princesses whose tiaras were stolen.

She attends O'Laughlin's funeral, standing beside a silently grieving Van Pelt. Her bullet wound seems to throb harder than ever, and she holds back a pained wince, squeezing Van Pelt's hand. She's not sure who the gesture is supposed to comfort, Van Pelt or herself. Van Pelt squeezes back, hard enough that the pressure on her hand distracts from the pain of her shoulder, but Lisbon refuses to let go.

Van Pelt's grip loosens after everyone else files away, and she lets go completely when only her and Lisbon are left. Her face is wet, stained with tears, and Lisbon looks away awkwardly.

Where the hell is Rigsby?

She doesn't know how to deal with this.

"Sorry, boss, I'm alright," sniffs Van Pelt, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"'S alright," says Lisbon gently but uncomfortably. "Take all the time you need."

Van Pelt nods, and clutches the hand that Lisbon has placed on her shoulder.

"Thanks," she whispers.

"Of course."

They stand in silence, broken only by Van Pelt's labored breathing and quiet sniffles. Lisbon looks at the new grave, smells the thick and heady sce2nt of fresh soil, and wonders for a fleeting second where Red John was buried. She shuts that thought down before it's even finished, in case her mind wanders to -

"Have you gone to see Jane yet?" asks Van Pelt.

Lisbon freezes, her blood running cold, goosebumps peppering her skin.

"No."

"You should," continues Van Pelt, oblivious. "I think he's worried about you."

Lisbon forces a smile that looks more like a grimace.

"Excuse me," she says, and promptly goes to throw up behind some bushes.

Two weeks go by.

Hightower calls Lisbon every few days, to both check in and to let Lisbon know how her case is going. She's been speaking to lawyers, trying to prove her innocence and get her name cleared. Lisbon is sure her trial will go well, and tells her so.

"Thanks, Teresa," replies Hightower over the phone. "I really don't know what I would have done with you."

They have become friends, of a sort, a fact that gives a little comfort to Lisbon when she lies in bed at night, unable to sleep. She's not alone in this world, even if sometimes she feels like she couldn't be lonelier.

"It's no problem, ma'am," says Lisbon with a genuine, albeit tiny, smile.

"You don't have to call me ma'am, you know," teases Hightower. "I'm not technically your boss. For now," she adds hopefully, and Lisbon surprises herself by letting out a laugh.

"I'm sure you will be soon," she says, tucking her cell phone between her right shoulder and her ear as she searches in her purse for her car keys. "You've been speaking to Ardilles, right?" she asks.

Hightower seems to know what the question is really about, even if Lisbon isn't consciously aware of why she asked.

"Yes. He's been great. You should really talk to him about Jane's trial," she suggests carefully.

Lisbon drops her keys.

"Sorry, ma'am, I just reached my car, so I gotta go," she says.

Hightower sighs, but doesn't press the issue.

"Okay. Nice talking to you, Teresa."

"Yeah, you too," she replies, and hangs up.

She picks up her keys and sits in her stationary car for almost an hour before she feels stable enough to drive home.

Three weeks go by.

She's cleared to go out in the field again, although there are limitations - no dangerous situations that would require the use of weapons or bulletproof vests. She relishes in the chance to get out of the CBI building, away from any potential reminders of Jane.

It's a Thursday when she goes with Rigsby to talk to the recent widow of their newest case. The talk doesn't go so well, considering the widow is experiencing so much grief she is literally speechless.

"Did that seem weird to you?" Rigsby asks as they head back toward her car.

Lisbon feels the sunlight on her face and tilts her head back, closing her eyes, enjoying the fleeting warmth that settles over her cold bones.

"What?" she murmurs back, distracted.

"She didn't say a word. Is that normal?"

He's frowning thoughtfully, as if the question is about more than just the widow. Lisbon fails to see what he could be thinking about, though, so she just shrugs.

Honestly, with the sun on her face and the green grass below her feet and the smell of salt in the ocean air, she couldn't really care less about the case right now. Her mind is slow and hazy, her thoughts coming lazily.

"Yeah, sometimes," she replies. "People react differently to grief. It could take a while for her to learn to cope with it. Or she could be in shock," she adds as an afterthought, not really paying attention.

"Shock," repeats Rigsby, still frowning.

"Yeah. There's a bunch of different ways to exhibit shock. Sometimes people just aren't able to speak until they get over it."

They're just reaching the car when Rigsby asks, "D'you think Jane's in shock?"

Her heart gives an odd thud, and she stops walking immediately.

"What?"

"Jane," repeats Rigsby, turning around to find he's left her behind. "He's not speaking either. Haven't you been to see him?"

Lisbon shakes her head. Her heart is pounding so hard she feels sick, but she tries to cover it up with nonchalance.

The sun on her face is no longer pleasant. It's burning her, overheating her skin, making her feel faint and flushed. The salt in the air is raw against her lungs.

"I haven't had time," she lies, before pressing, "What do you mean he's not speaking?"

Rigsby looks perplexed by the fact that Lisbon hasn't gone to see Jane, but he shakes himself out of it and shrugs.

"Exactly what I said," he replies candidly. "Apparently he hasn't said a word since... since he's been there. Maybe he's still in shock too?"

"Maybe," she repeats distractedly, her mind now working so fast she hardly has time to spare on paying attention to Rigsby. "Hey, you wanna drive?"

She throws her keys at him before he can reply and gets in the passenger seat. Rigsby looks surprised but pleased - Lisbon _never_ gives up her car keys - and he gets in the driver's seat, starting the engine.

"You alright, boss?" he asks, shooting her a look before reversing out of the driveway.

Lisbon realizes her eyebrows are furrowed so deep she's giving herself a headache, and she deliberately smooths out her face.

"Yeah, 'm fine," she says lightly.

Rigsby, bless him, naively believes her lie, though he leaves her to her thoughts during the drive back.

She heads to the bullpen, so distracted she almost bumps into people twice. Her feet start automatically skirting around the stairs leading to the attic, giving the steps as wide a berth as possible, before she hesitates.

She pauses at the foot of the staircase and looks up. She's not sure how long she stands there, weighing her options, but Bertram passes by twice, and shoots her an odd look each time.

The second time he stops next to her, frowning with bemusement, but she hardly even notices.

"Everything okay, Agent Lisbon?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Lisbon snaps out of her stupor and shakes her head quickly.

"No - yes - I mean, yes, sir, everything's fine. I was just going to get something from the attic. Sir."

She gestures to the stairs, and he nods, his eyebrows still raised.

"Okay, well, I'll let you do that," he says slowly, looking at her as if she's lost her marbles.

She flushes, and hesitates again for a second, but the decision's already been made. Bertram's still waiting for her to go upstairs, so unless she wants to take back her words she's going to have to do it.

She puts her foot on the first step, then takes the other steps at a near sprint, reaching the top before she can change her mind. She looks back, and sees Bertram blink before shaking his head and leaving with a shrug.

It's just her now.

She eyes the attic door but can't bring herself to open it.

She chews on her lip with clouded eyes, then berates herself for being a coward. Her fingers stretch around the handle, push it down and forward, and suddenly the door is open. She swallows, steps inside and closes the door behind her.

She lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

The attic is silent.

It's also dusty, maybe even a little moldy, and yet underneath it all she can... smell him. Just the barest hint of... what is that smell? Bergamot? She breathes in deeper, hoping to catch a trace of it, and finds that the scent assaults her senses, making her reel.

Her chest aches. Her stomach is rolling. Her head is pounding, and she's breathing in deep gasps, unable to get enough air in her lungs.

She can't breathe, she can't breathe -

She stumbles forward and sits on the makeshift bed, hunching over and pressing hard against her chest. She can feel her heart racing under her palm, in time with the pounding of her brain, as she struggles to get her breathing under control.

She tastes salt and realizes her face is wet.

This is ridiculous.

She _cannot_ be losing control over something as simple as entering a room.

But the truth is that she has spent the last month refusing to think about him, and now she is suddenly surrounded by Jane.

And... she _misses_ him. So much that it physically hurts.

The room is dark and empty, and she pictures Jane lying here by himself, stewing in thoughts of Red John and murder and revenge.

She clenches her eyes shut and breathes in deeply, once, twice.

She lies down, rests her head on the pillow, and imagines that somehow by being in here, she is closer to him.

No. She doesn't want to be closer to him.

Except she does.

No. She _shouldn't_ want to be closer to him.

He's a murderer. He killed a man in cold blood.

_He's killed before_, a treacherous part of her mind whispers. _Why do you care now?_

That was different. That was a panicked last-ditch attempt to save her life in the heat of the moment. This was... premeditated. Planned and executed coldly.

He's a _killer_. He has taken a life.

But he has also saved her life. Given her leaping origami frogs. Danced with her to her favorite song. Bought her an emerald necklace - and returned it without complaint when she couldn't accept. Snuck a _pony_ into the CBI building for her birthday...

And... it sounds like he needs help.

She leaves an hour later, tired and emotionally drained. She aches.

And she decides that maybe, just maybe... it might be time to visit Jane.


	3. Volume Three

**Author's Note: I have absolutely no medical or legal knowledge, so I'm just gonna gloss over those aspects... hope no one minds. If I made a glaring mistake, let me know in a review! :P (And if I didn't, please review anyway! :P)**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Three**

_Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety as after disappointment._

_- Henry David Thoreau_

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><p>One month later, she sees Jane for the first time. She hadn't been able to bring herself to visit him before, hadn't thought she could stomach the sight of his face.<p>

Even now, she isn't entirely sure. She's nervous, her fingers playing an agitated rhythm against her itchy pants. With each footstep that brings her closer, her heart seems to beat faster, relentless in its pursuit, until she feels lightheaded.

"Through here," says the guard who has let her in, and gestures for her to go through the door.

She is strangely both reluctant and eager to enter the room, the uncomfortable dichotomy tugging at her insides, pulling her forwards and pushing her back. She swallows down the emotion that she refuses to acknowledge, and steels herself.

"Thanks," she mutters to the guard, and walks through.

She hears the door close behind her, swinging shut and coming to rest, the lock clicking into place. She takes a breath, walks forward, and sits at the table. Her hands come to rest against the top, and she drags her fingertips across the surface, the metal smooth and cool against her skin.

She ducks her head, hiding her face as she struggles to regain her composure. It is only when her breathing slows down that she allows herself to look up and meet Jane's gaze.

She can't believe it's been over two months since she last saw him. She drinks in his image greedily, allowing herself that one small indulgence, eyes roaming over his familiar features and immediately filing the differences. His blue eyes are openly concerned, his curls messy, his mouth set in a grim line.

He looks tired, and stressed, and so, so sad - but he's still _Jane_, and that causes something in her chest to snap and whither away. Her shields crumble down, until she's laid bare before him, and she's too upset to even be self-conscious.

"Jane," she whispers, her voice breaking on that one syllable.

He doesn't reply, but his eyes sweep across the sling that is tied around her left arm, and something flickers behind his gaze. His fingers reach out and hover over her injury, barely touching her shoulder. He traces her collarbone with the tips of two fingers, gently sliding across and down, resting above her sternum, above her heart.

A few inches to the left and she would have died instantly.

She can see him coming to that realization, can read it in the dark set of his eyes and the twitch of his fingers. She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and feels as his fingers tremble every so slightly against her shirt. His breathing is slow and shallow.

She closes her eyes and exhales a shaking breath. He removes his hand, but he still looks worried, his mouth turned down and his forehead creased with lines. He gazes back at her and opens his lips as if to speak, but no words come out.

She clears her throat.

"I'm alright," she says, ducking her head. "A couple months of physical therapy and I should be fine."

His mouth tightens and he frowns, still visibly concerned, still eyeing the sling as if transfixed by it. She waits for a comment, anxious and anticipatory, and feels her heart droop downward as he doesn't reply.

"You doing alright in here?" she asks eventually.

His eyes finally leave her shoulder to focus back on her face. He hesitates, then nods.

They sit quietly for a while, the silence overpowering the stillness of the bleak grey room. She can feel Jane's eyes flitting back and forth across her features, lingering over her injury with a kind of residual panic that makes her chest ache. She looks down at the tabletop and struggles to find the words to express what she wants to say.

"Ardilles thinks you have a good chance of getting off," she settles on.

Jane doesn't react.

"With the audio recording and the gun found by Red John's body, he thinks he can pull off a self-defense angle. Plus, you brought down a notorious serial killer, which could help persuade the jury. But he's probably told you that already."

Still no reaction. He just blinks at her, then frowns.

She purses her lips as she feels exasperation bubbling up inside of her, reaching higher and higher, hot and boiling and angry, spilling over -

"Do you even care?" she bursts out. "At all?"

He looks surprised, but still he doesn't open his mouth.

She struggles to get her mind in order, struggles to sort out her muddled thoughts and find the words. She's mad, all of a sudden, furious and strangely hurt. His silence is grating on her already strained nerves, no matter how often she tells herself it shouldn't.

Ardilles had warned her, had told her that it was unlikely Jane would speak a word, even to her, no matter how close they had been before. Jane hadn't let out a single sound since the day he had murdered Red John, apparently, and Ardilles had cautioned her that he probably wouldn't start now.

But she had been hoping that maybe... maybe, for _her_, he might...

_He's probably in shock_, Ardilles had told her. She had seen it happen before - killing a man, committing cold-blooded murder, could have powerful and inexplicable consequences on a man's sanity. People could go into shock for weeks, months, might never get over it...

But she's still angry at him, for not saying a word, for not reacting to her presence at all. She quickly realizes that maybe it is her _worry_ for him that is coming across as fury, that maybe her anxiety is making her angrier than she should be - but this fact, in turn, only vexes her even more.

Why should she worry about him when he obviously hadn't been thinking about her?

She worries anyway, she can't help it, and this makes her furious - at both him and at herself. It is a vicious circle that she can't escape. The fury slithers into her veins, creeping like an army of ants, prickly, covering every surface of her skin, until she wants to yell, wants to rage at him, wants to ask -

"Why the hell did you do it?" Her voice is loud and raw, and she surprises even herself when she speaks. "You arrogant, pig-headed man - you foolish, _selfish_ _jackass_- _ngh!"_

She's so mad she isn't even coherent, isn't even aware of speaking, just babbling whatever feelings pass through her body. Her skin is crawling, her mind buzzing, her shoulders and neck hot with rage.

"What about us?" she demands. "What about _me?_ Did you think this affected only you? Did you just not _care?_ How could you -"

She breaks off, breathing heavily, and clamps her mouth shut. For a split second Jane looks alarmed, before his face melts into distortion. She realizes her vision is swimming with unshed tears. She blinks rapidly, refusing to let them fall, refusing to let him see how much she cares.

"Are you happy now?" she mutters bitterly. "Is this what you wanted?"

She's goading him, she knows, lashing out with everything she has, regardless of the consequences. She _wants_ him to feel sorry, wants him to regret it, wants him to turn into a huge puddle of remorse - she just wants to know that he _cares_.

"Well, guess what, you got it - you got your damn vengeance. Does it feel as good as you thought it would? You feel that peace now? Huh? Are you _fucking happy?_"

She blinks through her blurred vision and ducks her head again, hiding her eyes behind her bangs. She sniffs, closes her eyes, and through sheer will forces them to clear.

The room feels cold around her, sterile and empty. Jane's orange suit glares brightly even behind her eyelids, and she clenches her teeth to stop them from chattering. Her nails are digging into her palm, sharp little crescents of pain, but she doesn't relax her fingers; the pain keeps her grounded, keeps her from losing control and breaking down. Her pulse pounds in her ears, her breathing heavy in the silent room. Her bullet wound throbs.

She opens her eyes and concentrates on the table, staring until her eyes clear again. Jane's hand appears in her vision, hesitating just shy of her fingers. She can almost feel the ghost of his touch, and she lets out a long, shuddering exhale as she looks back at him.

He doesn't look happy.

If anything, he looks near tears himself.

He ducks his head a little so he can look her more directly in the eyes, and she allows herself to gaze back. The corner of his mouth is trembling just the slightest bit, almost imperceptible, and his eyes are wide, imploring, pleading.

He shakes his head, and she feels her heart unclench a little.

"'M sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't mean -"

He shakes his head again, and his fingers shift a few millimeters closer to hers. He opens his mouth and she can hear the breath he inhales - but still not a word.

She clears her throat, and slides her hand off the table. Jane's fingers clench around nothing, before he pulls his hand back as well. He looks bereft and lost, and she can feel her anger melting as her heart goes out to him.

"You got everything you need in here?" she asks gently.

He nods, but he seems ashamed to meet her eyes. Her heart physically aches for him now - and how did he manage to make her anger dissolve without even trying?

"You... you think you're gonna talk to me anytime soon?"

He swallows, but still refuses to look at her. She's disappointed, but she hadn't really expected an answer, so she just nods understandingly. She angles her head so she can look into his eyes, and speaks softly.

"That's okay," she tells him. "Whenever you're ready. You know you _can_ talk to me, right? About anything. Even after... well."

She's awkward now, unused to so directly offering her support, to so directly letting someone know how much she cares. Jane is watching her, his face open, his eyes swimming, but she's too embarrassed to look at him.

Self-conscious, she coughs and changes the subject.

"Grace is doing alright. She's grieving, of course, but I think she's mostly just confused. Rigsby's trying to help her get along. Cho's fine, too. He says hi."

Oh. She forgot that they've all been by to see him already.

Jane blinks, and tilts his head to the side, his gaze roaming over her face. She blushes, but refuses to let it affect her.

"Hightower's dealing with some lawyers, but she thinks she'll be able to come back to the CBI. She asked me to thank you, for, you know, well, everything..."

Jane nods, and she lapses into silence. They sit quietly for a while. She knows she should leave, but she doesn't want to, doesn't want to go home to an empty apartment where she'll spend the rest of the day imagining Jane, alone, back here. So she allows herself some time to just bask in his company, to enjoy being in his presence while she can.

She misses him.

It's a strange thought, since most of her time has been spent wanting to punch him. But she does miss him, every day, the same way she imagines she'd miss a limb. The same way she misses her parents, misses Sam, misses her brothers.

Oh, God, she wants his trial to go well, so badly. More than anything.

She wonders if he realizes how hard she has pushed for this, how much of herself she is putting into his defense. She wonders if he knows the only reason Ardilles is even on his case is because of her, the only reason they're pushing for a self-defense angle is because of her.

Because while she may have been furious at him - may still be furious - Lisbon is fiercely protective towards those she cares about, even if they're in the wrong. And God help anyone who gets in her way.

She hears the door open behind her, and Jane looks over her shoulder.

"Ma'am?"

The guard from earlier pokes his head through the door, and she sighs.

"I'll just be a minute," she tells him, then turns back to Jane. "I should go."

His eyes snap back to hers, and for a brief second she can see the disappointment clouding them, before he looks down and nods. He links his fingers together and studies them, folding his hands over each other, barely even blinking.

She stands up and straightens her jacket, careful not to jar the sling around her left arm. He still hasn't looked up, so she touches two fingers to his wrist, and waits for him to acknowledge her.

"I'll see if I can come back soon, okay?"

A nod, and a brief upward quirk of his lips. It's small, but it causes warmth to spread throughout her chest. She smiles self-consciously at him, shyly, the first time she's smiled in weeks, then pulls her hand back and heads for the door.

She turns around just before exiting, and says, "You sure you're gonna be alright?"

He's watching her attentively, as if trying to ingrain her image in his head, as if this is the last time he'll ever see her - and she's struck by the desperation written clearly across his face, because Jane never allows himself to show any genuine emotion. Her heart squeezes painfully, and she wants nothing more than to wipe that look off of his face, to stay here as long as she can.

He nods and wiggles his fingers in a half-hearted wave, and she reluctantly closes the door behind her.

Despite her words, she rarely has time to visit him. More than that, she's also not sure if she even _wants _to visit him. Half of the time she misses him terribly, but the other half is spent trying to deal with anger and resentment and a terrible sense of betrayal, and she's not quite sure she can face looking at him. So she bides her time while she tries to cool her anger, and visits only once more.

Three months later, he stands solemnly in a court room, awaiting his sentence.

Ardilles is an amazing DA, and manages to gather numerous convincing arguments in Jane's favor.

The mic attached to Jane's collar, which he had been using to communicate with Cho, was left on during his conversation with Red John, proving his identity as the infamous serial killer who many believed deserved to die anyway. Security footage caught Red John's gun as actually being aimed at Jane, suggesting it may have been self-defense. Even Jane's silence gets played to his benefit, making him seem remorseful, endearing, almost sweet; the psychiatrist called to witness claims that Jane wasn't - and still isn't - in his right mind, implying that the murder wasn't done entirely in cold blood.

Lisbon waits for his sentence with baited breath, eyes trained on the judge, steadfastly ignoring the way Jane stares at her.

"Patrick Jane, you're free to go," announces the judge, and with those words his trial comes to an end.

He sits with his mouth half-open, clearly stunned and unsure of what to do with himself now.

Lisbon feels a tension within her dissolve, the knot of stress loosening until she can breathe again.

But at the same time, she knows it is _wrong_ that they are letting a murderer walk free, no matter how much Red John deserved it, and she can't quite shake off this knowledge. Her whole belief in the justice system is warping.

She oscillates between relief and this feeling of wrongness, unsure whether to smile or frown. She can't get a handle on her emotions - can't tell what she should be feeling, and can't even tell what she _is_ feeling.

This is what she had wanted.

Right?

Then why does it feel so wrong?

She is... relieved. But she knows she _shouldn't_ be.

Her moral compass is spinning out of control, and it shakes her to her core.

She can't meet Jane's eyes, unprepared for either his triumph or his regret. She ducks out of the court room without looking at him, and misses the way his gaze follows her all the way out.


	4. Volume Four

**Author's Note: This is where it starts to branch off from most post-finale fics... just to warn you. Please continue to review! :)**

* * *

><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Four**

_Silence like a cancer grows._

_- Paul Simon_

* * *

><p>When he returns to the CBI, Jane doesn't utter a word.<p>

He lays on his couch, looks in on interviews, makes tea and finishes his sudoku puzzles - but not a single word ever passes his lips. It isn't like he has retreated into himself, hiding from reality; he doesn't ignore people or refuse to acknowledge them. He is perfectly aware of the world around him, and he does communicate.

But now he does it via body language.

A nod of his head, a wave of his hand, a quirk of his lips. If that it isn't enough, he just shrugs and gives up.

Yes or no questions work best, Lisbon quickly realizes. If she asks a yes or no question, all he has to do is nod or shake his head. He never offers more information but if Lisbon continues to guess, he will continue to answer.

"Do you find the husband suspicious?"

A nod.

"Why? Is it because you think his alibi doesn't hold?"

A nod.

"So you think Jessie Andrews was lying when she admitted they were together the night of the murder?"

A shake.

"So they were together. But not sleeping together?"

A nod. He twirls his finger around, gesturing for her to go further with her ideas.

"You think they both murdered the victim? Together?"

A nod and a flash of a grin that acknowledges how quickly Lisbon has sussed out the situation.

If anything good is coming out of Jane's silence, it's that her guessing skills are improving exponentially. As well as her body language skills. She and Jane have always communicated very well, able to hold entire conversations with just their eyes or facial expressions. Before, she had found it intimate enough to be both uncomfortable and at the same time oddly pleasing.

Now, she finds it necessary.

She's getting better at reading him. She had once wished for that to be the case, wished to be able to read him as he reads her. Now she just wishes it didn't have to happen at all, wishes he would start talking again, no matter how annoying and irritating he would again be.

She would give up her ability to read him if it meant he would start talking again.

Because his silence is proof that Jane is not... entirely sane.

They had chalked it up to shock before, shock at the realization of what killing a man actually _means_, actually does to you. Jane, despite all of his speeches about murdering Red John, has never been tough or cold. If anything, he has always been a bit of a wimp, shying away from weapons and danger as if frightened and revolted by just the thought.

So for a man like Jane to kill someone in cold blood, coherently and intentionally... of course he would go into shock.

But staying mute for _months_... is way beyond normal shock.

As the days after his trial turn into weeks, the silence becomes more and more oppressive, hanging over them like a dark cloud, dogging them. It is like a sickness, a disease hovering over their lives, growing like a cancer. It makes everyone tense and uncomfortable, because it forces them to confront that _Jane is not okay_.

Lisbon's frustration increases with Jane's continued silence. She doesn't like feeling helpless, and she doesn't like feeling ignorant.

No matter which way she looks at it, she can't understand why he won't speak.

When she asks him about it, Jane doesn't reply. He looks at her carefully, intensely, then shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders and leaves the room, ignoring her questions.

She throws her stapler at the closed door and scowls in frustration. She _hates_ feeling helpless. She spends most of her time these days wanting to punch someone, if only to have something to _do_.

Hightower, who was reinstated a few weeks ago, eventually can't put it off any longer. Lisbon is honestly surprised it has taken her this long, but she supposes Hightower has her reasons for delaying the inevitable; gratefulness for everything Jane has done for her, perhaps, or admitting that despite his silence Jane still closes cases faster than anyone else.

But weeks of not speaking is way past pushing the line of professionalism and, no matter how reluctant she is, Hightower can't let this kind of behavior continue.

Lisbon knows all of this, logically, but she can't deny the panic that sets in when she realizes Hightower intends to terminate Jane's contract with the CBI.

"He just needs a little more time," Lisbon argues, aware that she is repeating herself.

Hightower uncrosses her arms and places her palms against the edge of Lisbon's desk, leaning forwards to speak to her more directly.

"He's had enough time! This isn't a temporary state of shock, Lisbon, I fear this is something much more permanent."

Lisbon's blood is starting to run cold, goosebumps pricking her skin, but she refuses to accept what Hightower is saying. She denies what she fears is starting to become true, stubbornly refuses to admit it.

"No," she says, shaking her head and leaning back in her desk chair.

"This isn't healthy behavior," continues Hightower. "He needs professional, psychiatric help."

Hightower speaks softly, gently. Lisbon wonders what her face must be showing, in order for Hightower to be acting so concerned rather than stern. Hightower talks to her as if she's close to losing it.

Lisbon wonders if maybe she is right.

"You know Jane would never go for that," Lisbon shakes her head. "He hates psychiatrists. He won't set foot near one. What he _needs_ is to be around us. We're his family - he needs to know he's not alone."

Her voice shakes, though she tries to hide it. She's surprised to realize that she is _scared_, that this is fear running through her veins, icy cold and paralyzing. She is scared that Jane will have to leave - scared for him, or scared for herself?

She can't imagine the CBI without him, and is beginning to realize that she doesn't want to, doesn't think she would even be able to.

Without the CBI holding them together, what connection will they have? They are friends, sort of, but only because they are colleagues, and as soon as that gets taken away...

She is _so_ scared that he will have to leave.

Hightower sighs at the look on Lisbon's face.

"Okay, I'll tell you what. Talk to Jane, ask him to take some time off. He can come back to working with us when he starts talking again, okay?"

Lisbon is silent for a moment, waging an internal war. It's a gamble, giving Jane this ultimatum - because what if he never starts talking again?

She doesn't have much of a choice, does she?

"Yes, ma'am," she gives in.

Hightower gives her a sympathetic smile on her way out, but Lisbon is too troubled to let herself smile back.

She realizes that the fear swimming under her skin isn't just about Jane leaving - it's about Hightower being right.

Jane is not okay.

She has known this for a while, somewhere in the back of her mind, but admitting it to herself makes it all the more real, and all the more terrifying. There is something very damaged within him, something broken in his mind, a fractured link between his neurons. There is no quick fix, no band-aid to apply over the wound for a few days.

For all she knows, there may be no fix at all -

_No_.

The thought makes her breath catch, and she shoves it away.

A psychiatrist.

A psychiatrist can help him.

But how the hell is she meant to convince Jane to go along with it?

A few hours later, after everyone has gone home for the night and it's just her and Jane in the break room, she walks over to his couch and gently kicks it. Jane blinks his eyes open and looks at her.

"You wanna come in to my office for a bit?" she asks.

_Meh, no, not really,_ she imagines him saying, _I'm quite enjoying my nap right here_.

But he doesn't say that. He just nods and stands up, following her and closing the door behind them. He sits down in the chair in front of her desk and she sits opposite him, regarding him in silence as he stares back. He looks pale and drawn, tired and numb. His eyes are eerily empty, almost dead, as he looks back at her, and she is forced to admit - again - that Hightower is right.

She swallows.

"Jane," she starts, then shuts her mouth, unsure of how to continue. "Are you okay?" she asks eventually.

Jane raises his eyebrows, and hesitates before nodding slowly. He leans forward, curious about the grave and serious conversation he knows is coming. Lisbon leans forward as well, resting her elbows on the wooden desk, unconsciously mirroring his position.

"I don't think you are," she continues quietly.

Jane opens his mouth as if to argue, then promptly closes it again.

"Don't even try and deny it," she warns. "You haven't said a word in _months_. Despite what you may believe, I think you need some time off."

Something flares in his eyes, the first sign of life in days - but she barely has a second to register it before he shakes his head vehemently, his mouth set in a hard line, his hands clenched around each other, knuckles straining white.

She raises her eyebrows in both surprise and concern.

"That's okay, that's nothing to be ashamed of" she tries to console. "I think you just need some time off to come to terms with everything -"

She is cut off by his hand on her elbow, his palm warm against her skin. He ducks his head a little to look her squarely in the eyes, shaking his head with determination.

"Jane -" she tries.

He shakes his head again, once, sharply, and then widens his eyes at her, just the slightest bit, pleadingly. Lisbon pauses mid-sentence with her mouth open, caught off guard by the desperation in his face.

She hesitates, searching deeply into his eyes, trying to read him the way he can normally read her.

He looks... scared, she notices.

Of leaving?

Of being alone, perhaps.

He has no one outside of the CBI, she realizes. They are his colleagues, friends and family, all rolled into one.

And that tugs at her heartstrings in the most painful way, an ache that makes it hard for her to breathe.

No matter how often she gets angry at him, no matter how often she questions whether it is right for him to be free, no matter how often she seethes with betrayal and despair over what he has done... she can't bear to see him upset.

The last few weeks have been strained, a constant back and forth between sympathy and disgust, pity and anger, empathy and resentment. Much of her time has been spent trying to reconcile the two sides warring within her - the one that can't get past what Jane has done, and the one that would do anything to help him.

Nothing cures her anger better than the sight of Jane in pain. One glimpse of his sadness, and she feels her own empathy chasing away all other emotions, forgiving him instantly (even if temporarily).

Now is no different.

She doesn't want to cast him out, but he _needs_ this, and though it may kill her to do so Lisbon will help him work through his problems any way she can.

Even if it means suspending him.

"Jane -" she starts again.

Jane snatches his hand back and pulls away, already shaking his head and closing his eyes, as if he can block out her words by sheer force of will. The sight is unbearable, so unlike him, his mask destroyed; he looks like a lost little boy being told no one will have him.

Lisbon hesitates, her heart clenching, and realizes she can't go through with it.

"Okay. Okay," she soothes, leaning towards him until he looks at her again, his eyes wide. "I'm not going to make you leave. You can stay here as long as you like."

Jane swallows and nods, and she can see him consciously trying to calm his body down. Bio-feedback, she thinks vaguely, even as her mind races to find a solution that will appease both Hightower and Jane.

"On one condition," she continues slowly.

She mulls the words over in her head, seemingly lost in thought, but she pays careful attention to Jane's body language, and takes note of the way he sits up straighter, wary of what her condition is.

She sighs, but can see no way around it.

"You need to start seeing a therapist."

At first Jane just blinks at her, clearly taken aback. She can't even appreciate her victory over finally rendering him speechless, because she is too worried about how he will react. Nerves are thrumming throughout her body, because if he refuses then Hightower will refuse to let him work here, and then she has no idea what she would do -

Jane shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line and his eyes as hard as diamonds.

"Listen, you are obviously _not_ okay - and you don't need to be ashamed of that, that's fine - and despite what you may think - heck, despite what _I_ may think - psychiatrists can actually do a lot of good."

He is still shaking his head, refusing to look at her, waving his hands back and forth for extra emphasis. She can feel exasperation rising within her, making her skin crawl, and she rolls her eyes.

"No, listen to me, you arrogant jackass - this isn't negotiable. Hightower wants to fire you. You'd be fortunate if she even agrees to this, so don't push your luck. Either you see a therapist, or you're suspended indefinitely. You understand?"

Jane clenches his jaw and glares at her, anger seething through his eyes. She doesn't care. If anything, it makes her feel _better_ - because anger is better than no emotion at all. She holds his gaze, glares right back at him, and refuses to bow down.

Jane shakes his head one final time.

Lisbon feels the first tendril of fear curling around her chest - what if he calls her bluff, and actually leaves? - but steels her resolve and slams her hand down on the table.

"No," she says loudly, "this is it, Jane. Either you see a psychiatrist or you leave. Now. Which is it gonna be?"

He looks down at the table, studies his hands, a twitch in his clenched jaw that she has never noticed before. She waits for his answer with bated breath, and feels an eternity go by while he wavers back and forth between his disdain for psychiatrists and his inexplicable fear of leaving.

Finally, after what feels like eons of strained nerves and burning lungs, Jane's head bows down in defeat, and he nods.

He looks pissed.

Lisbon can't quell the smile that crosses her face, though she tries to suppress it when Jane looks at her.

Does she feel guilty for blackmailing him into this?

_Hell no._

"Alright," she says brusquely, trying to assert her authority and trying to hide how relieved she is. "I'll set one up through the CBI - that way I bet I can even get them to pay the expenses, too - and I'll let you know when your first appointment is."

Jane acknowledges her words, though he still seems too furious to look her directly in the face.

"And just so you know," she continues lightly as he stands up and makes his way towards the door, "I'm gonna be checking in on you. If I find you've skipped a session or aren't taking this seriously, you'll be out on your ass faster than you can say _sheepdip_. Got it?"

The disdain in his eyes is evident even from all the way across the room. He turns around to exit the door, shoulders bunched with tension, but he does give her a terse nod.

"And Jane?" she says just before he closes the door.

He freezes, his back stiff, and refuses to face her.

"Thank you," she says softly. "I know you don't want to do this - so, thank you."

He doesn't ask what for.

She wouldn't have known what to say, anyway.

She swallows, uncomfortable and embarrassed, but feels lighter when she sees Jane's shoulders uncurl. He looks back at her, the anger gone from his eyes, replaced by something she can't quite identify. He nods again, softer this time, and exits the room, his fingers lingering on the door handle before gently pulling away.


	5. Volume Five

**Author's Note: I'm aware that the first scene probably wouldn't happen in real life... but this is just a story, so it's all good. :) Thanks so much for reviewing, everyone! They really make my day. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Five**

_Silence is medication for sorrow._

_- Arab Proverb_

* * *

><p>Dr. Maria Hoffstader is a sharp, brisk, no-nonsense sort of woman. Her air of detachment lets her get the truth out of her patients without ever having to coddle or soothe them.<p>

Lisbon is sure Jane will appreciate the lack of pity.

What Lisbon herself appreciates is Hoffstader's ability to discern the truth with barely a glance.

Because when Lisbon asks her how Jane is doing, Hoffstader barely has to spare her a look before forming a correct judgement. Lisbon is not fishing for gossip, nor prying out of simple curiosity. She is worried, and the relationship between her and Jane runs far deeper than perhaps either are willing to acknowledge.

The best part about Hoffstader is that she can tell this with just a look. Lisbon doesn't have to try and put it into words, doesn't have to attempt to defend herself. Hoffstader just knows.

"I can't tell you much," Hoffstader sighs as she removes her glasses to rub her eyes. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

Lisbon, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, plasters a polite smile on her face and nods.

"Of course," she replies, and can't even begin to cover up the disappointment in her voice.

She ducks her head in goodbye, and turns around to leave, a heavy weight in her chest that she can't shake. This was stupid. She shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have asked -

"Wait."

Hoffstader regards her, and Lisbon tries not to fidget under her gaze. Psychiatrists make her uncomfortable, always have, and she can feel unease bubbling in her blood, causing her muscles to tighten.

Hoffstader seems to make up her mind. Lisbon flushes with the knowledge that Hoffstader has seen right through her, has seen exactly how she feels about Jane. Not even Jane himself knows that. Even _Lisbon_ isn't entirely sure that there is something to know, or what it is.

"What I can tell you," continues Hoffstader after a moment, her voice hushed, her eyes not meeting Lisbon as she replaces her glasses, "is that becoming mute after a traumatizing event is not as uncommon as you may believe."

Lisbon lets out a breath. Her grip on the door handle loosens, the metal wet and sticky from her clammy hands.

"So... that's good, right?" she double checks, ducking her head uncertainly.

Hoffstader hesitates, then looks back at her.

"It's... not bad. What is slightly more worrying is that Jane seems to be..."

She trails off, obviously conflicted over whether or not to say anything. Lisbon holds her breath and tries not to move, not wanting to tip Hoffstader over the edge. She waits with strained muscles, clinging on to the door frame as if it will support her weight, sturdy and firm against her.

Hoffstader sighs, then continues, voice quiet, "Well, he seems to be displaying latent signs of grief. I understand his family was killed - just over eight years ago, was it?"

Lisbon nods, her heart in a vice.

"He seems to be passing through the stages of grief eight years too late. He may become... very upset for a while. But it should pass with time And I do believe his muteness is linked to his grief."

There is a burning in her lungs, a desperate clawing that is making her panic. She reminds herself to breathe, and the ache slowly disappears.

"Of course, it goes without saying that if it gets out that I told you this, I could lose my license."

But Hoffstader's voice is calm, not worried. She obviously sees something in Lisbon that Lisbon herself doesn't quite see yet, otherwise she would have kept quiet.

"Of course," replies Lisbon, touched and strangely honored. "Don't worry about it, I won't say a word. And thank you. For telling me."

Lisbon watches Jane over the next few weeks, studies the way he acts, the way he moves, the way he talks. She can see that he is in unbearable pain. He doesn't show it, of course, because for as long as she's known him Jane has always worn a mask. He smiles, he grins, he bothers suspects and gets in her hair until she wants to throw her stapler at him. He drinks tea and reads and naps. He's thoughtful, considerate, almost _sweet_ - he buys donuts for the team and brings her endless amounts of coffee and makes her little origami flowers.

But he does it all silently.

And his silence is cruelly deceptive, because it makes Jane seem okay - but the pure length of time that he has been silent shows that he is _not_.

There are little ticks, little tells that she is beginning to notice. He twirls his wedding ring when he thinks no one is looking, round and round, the pads of his fingers smoothing over the metal like a caress. His smile isn't sincere, doesn't reach his eyes. Sometimes his breath will catch and his eyes will glaze over, seeing something that she will never be able to envision, lost in a world of his own that she will never be able to enter. A world that she fears she will never be able to drag him out of.

Grief.

She tries the word out on her tongue, feels the slight growl of the 'gr' at the back of her throat, feels the catch of her upper teeth on her bottom lip at the 'f'.

It makes sense, she supposes, in a way that could only be applied to Jane.

Eight years ago he had lost his entire life. But instead of dealing the grief, instead of allowing himself to feel it, he had distracted himself from it... distracted himself with vengeance, with hunting Red John.

Now that Red John is out of the picture, he has no choice but to work _through_ the grief.

No more sidestepping around it, no more pushing it away. The only way out is through.

Her heart breaks for him all over again.

And when she sees him crying, she feels it splinter even more, glass shards tearing through her insides.

She had returned to the interrogation room intending to pick up a file she had forgotten a few hours ago, but when she had opened the door she had frozen right where she was standing, fingers curled around the door handle, one foot in front of the other.

It is the first time she has ever seen him cry, but she knows the image will be scalded into her brain forever. Seeing his wet, tear-stained cheeks, his red eyes and trembling lips, is a punch to the gut, a jolt in her system, unexpectedly painful.

Even when he cries, he is silent.

Heart thudding painfully, frozen, mind blank with shock, she lets out a quiet exhale. The breath is more air than sound, but the silence permeating around Jane is so stark, so tangible, that her exhalation almost seems to echo off of it, shattering it completely.

Jane hears the quiet breath and his head jerks up to look at her.

Caught, she stares right back, feeling like her heart will actually burst out of her chest. The air in the room seems to vibrate around them, and the walls close down on her, and she is drowning, drowning, drowning -

Then Jane ducks his head, almost shamefully, and refuses to meet her gaze.

Now she feels like her heart is being squeezed in a vice.

She stands still for a moment, frozen with both shock and indecision. Should she try and console him? Or let him have his privacy?

She's useless with emotions. She's too awkward. She can't comfort people, has never developed the skill. She never knows what people want, or what they need - do they want a shoulder to cry on, or do they want to be left alone?

Lisbon herself has always retreated to privacy to cry, where no one can see her vulnerability.

But what does Jane want?

What does he need?

What could she even give him?

Jane lowers his head further, as if trying to crawl into himself, trying to hide from her, hide from the world.

Lisbon acknowledges his need for privacy, his shame at appearing weak, however unfounded it is. So she takes a step back and closes the door quietly behind her, heart still racing painfully despite the iron grip around it.

The soft snick of the lock echoes loudly in her brain, the only sound from the entire exchange that she can remember hearing.

If she had any lingering resentment towards him, it is definitely now gone for good.

He may be a murderer, but he is far from heartless.

When Jane returns to the bullpen about an hour later, she debates with herself for a brief instant. In the end, the she refuses to give in to her own cowardice, her own fear of displaying emotion, and calls him into her office. She feels that the moment should be acknowledged, that _he_ should be acknowledged. He should know that she is here for him, if he needs her. He's not alone.

He grins at Van Pelt when she shoots him a curious look, and strolls into Lisbon's office as if doesn't have a care in the world. He looks fine now, back to normal, perfectly composed, and she is yet again astonished at how well he can control his body. His face is clear, his hair is neat - his eyes aren't even _slightly_ red.

How the hell does he do it?

The only indication that she hadn't, in fact, imagined the whole incident is that Jane stands hesitantly in the doorway, not really crossing the threshold, wary of entering her territory. He rocks back and forth on his heels, not quite meeting her eye. She wants to tell him to come in and to close the door behind him, because this conversation should be private, but somehow the words seem too ominous, too grave.

She doesn't really know what to say at all, to be honest.

God, this is awkward.

It doesn't help that she can see Van Pelt and Rigsby practically straining to hear what their conversation will be about.

"Jane -" she starts quietly, then stops, unsure of how to continue. "About earlier -"

She is way too uncomfortable talking about this. Her voice is careful, tentative and nervous, and she lets herself be cut off when Jane shakes his head roughly. He holds his hands up as if to block out her words, and takes a smell step backwards, intending to flee.

Damn him for not closing the door.

"Jane, wait -"

He pauses, finally meets her gaze, and she sucks in a quiet breath. All of his composure seems to have left him; he is watching her nervously, almost dejectedly, wringing his hands and ducking his head as if he expects her to berate him.

He looks... ashamed. Of himself.

The thought makes her want to cry.

He has _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Crying is natural after a loss - it is healthy, even if it is almost a decade too late. He should _not_ feel ashamed of himself for breaking down, should not feel embarrassed that she has seen him at his weakest.

But she can see that he does, and the last thing she wants to do is make him feel worse.

So she keeps it short and simple, only saying, a little awkwardly and stilted, "Just - I'm here. You know. If... yeah. I just want you to know I'm here for you, okay? Whenever you want."

He quickly starts shaking his head again, fast, automatically refuting her words. She feels her shoulders droop, disappointment settling over her bones like a heavy weight.

Does he not want help at all? Is he that far gone?

Or does he just not want _her_ help?

A selfish, hidden part of her mind wonders which she finds worse.

Then he stops shaking his head and presses his lips together in a thin line. He stares at her so hard she feels as if he is staring right into her, into her very heart, her very soul, and she struggles to breathe.

He gives a long, slow nod, acknowledging her words. When he looks up, his eyes are suspiciously wet. She thinks for an astonishing second that he might actually accept her offer. She feels her heart open up inside of her, swelling -

He holds up his palm and shakes his head again, once, slowly. He pats the air twice, a gesture for her to slow down.

But he is smiling. To be fair, the smile is small and faint, and trembling. Obviously forced, but the fact that it is there at all makes her smile back.

It means that he has actually _considered_ her offer, acknowledged it, thanked her for it.

She understands what he hasn't said out loud: not now.

But maybe, one day, he'll take her up on it.

Hope curls inside of her, warm and tingly. She smiles.


	6. Volume Six

**Author's Note: Thanks for reviewing! :)**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Six**

_Silence is a text easy to misread. - A.A. Attanasio_

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><p>Lisbon is used to living in denial. She spent years denying her father's alcoholism and abuse, Tommy's drug addiction, James' concern for her overworked life. She spent years denying Bosco's love for her, denying Jane's intentions to kill Red John, denying her own loneliness.<p>

But there are some that things that just can't be denied, and sooner or later they will come out into the open.

The realization that she loves Jane comes very fast, extraordinarily easy. Because... of course she loves him.

Of course she does.

The love must have grown gradually, so incrementally slow that she was left unaware until suddenly, one day, Jane was just as important as her brothers, just as important as any of her friends.

A different kind of love, maybe, but no less powerful.

Lisbon has loved before. She loved her parents, loves her brothers, loves her college roommate and best friend back in San Francisco. She has even been _in_ love once.

This is not the same. This is something... _more._ Something closer. Something undefinable, without a name. She has never felt this way about anybody.

Loving him is as natural as breathing, something innate and intrinsic, in her very cells, her very atoms, a core element of her being. Like she wouldn't be herself, if she didn't love him. This love is a part of her now, and she can't imagine, or remember, what it was like to be without it.

And it _hurts_.

Because she feels what he feels. When he breaths, she breathes; when he cries, she cries; when he hurts, _she_ hurts. They are linked, connected in some unconceivable way, and his grief radiates through their connection until it touches her heart as well. He doesn't have a place near her heart, he _is_ her heart, and when he is broken her heart is broken. She can feel his pain, inside of herself.

She has empathized with the families of victims before. She has known what they felt, that loss and longing, because she had felt it herself when she was younger.

But she has never felt it _alongside_ them, not like she does with Jane.

His grief is killing her, and she would do anything to make it disappear.

She would go through hell and back again to return his wife and daughter to him, stare down the very devil and offer herself up as an exchange. Jane is infinitely more important than herself, and she would do it in a heartbeat.

But she can't.

All she can do is stand by him with her silent support, and hope he'll continue to stand by her.

The first few months are terribly hard, and Lisbon fears her heart will be permanently filled with pity and empathy, sad for both Jane and herself, unable to continue like this but also incapable of moving on.

Over time, however, her heart beats a little stronger, her breaths come a little easier, the weight on her shoulders becomes a little lighter.

In the rare instances when she catches him without a mask, Jane seems to be genuinely _healing_.

When he smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkle up and his irises sparkle.

He sometimes touches his wedding band as if it's an afterthought, each time looking a little startled that it's still there.

He hides Rigsby's snacks just for the amusement to be derived from watching Rigsby search for them with confusion.

He folds over the wrong corners in Cho's book to make him lose his page. Lisbon can't decide whether to scowl and berate him, or just simply laugh.

He's gentler with Van Pelt than the others, a help rather than a hindrance. He makes her coffee with extra sugar, even though Lisbon knows he hates just the smell, and takes her out for lunch every time something reminds her of O'Laughlin. Lisbon tries to imagine their lunch dates - Van Pelt spilling her heart out while Jane remains silent - then remembers that Jane is extraordinarily communicative even without words. She's sure Van Pelt has no trouble deriving the sympathy and support from his gestures.

Jane takes up permanent residence on Lisbon's new couch in her office. His stubborn streak returns; he makes her endless cups of tea, even as she repeats over and over that she only drinks coffee. He lets the steaming cup sit untouched on her desk for about half an hour before giving in and drinking it himself, already planning when he'll try again.

He snoops around suspects' houses, fiddling with their belongings and sniffing their artifacts, placing a warm hand on the small of Lisbon's back as he walks her out.

He drives her around, lets her sleep in the car, wakes her up with a gentle caress of her arm, grinning as she blinks sleepily.

He returns from Dr. Hoffstader's office with barely a scowl, so thoughtful and distracted that he misses Lisbon watching him through her blinds with a hint of a smile.

The smallest shred of hope starts to curl in her heart and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, things are beginning to look up.

Until she gets the call.

It's a Wednesday morning, and she has already left two messages on Jane's phone asking where he is and berating him for lateness.

"If you deign to check your messages in the near future," she snarks, "don't bother coming in to the office. Go meet Cho at Denver's mansion, we think he may be covering for his brother. I want you guys to check it out."

She gives him the address and hangs up irritably, already on her way to the interrogation room to find out what Andreas seems to be hiding.

A little under two hours later her phone rings shrilly, startling her out of the mountain of paperwork she's buried herself under.

"Sheep dip," she mutters, scrambling in her purse to find the offending object so she can end the noise.

She picks up on the fourth ring, stabbing the little green button with no small amount of annoyance, and leans back in her chair, regarding the mass of papers that she's going to have to get through tonight.

"Lisbon," she sighs, already tired at just the thought of completing all those forms.

"Hey, boss."

Cho's voice comes through in her ear, and she remembers Jane's tardiness that morning. A whole new wave of irritation crashes over her, and she scowls through the receiver.

"Hey, Cho. Did Jane ever show up at Denver's place?"

"Actually, I'm in the hospital with him now. I don't think he'll be coming in today."

_What?_

Her annoyance disappears in a flash as her heart locks up in her chest, snapping straight.

"The hospital?" she repeats, and is ashamed to admit that her voice is higher than she had wanted. "Why?"

If Cho senses her concern, he doesn't show it. His voice is as monotone as ever when he replies calmly, "He's got some pretty deep cuts on his wrist, he lost a lot of blood -"

Lisbon can't listen anymore.

"Okay," she interrupts loudly. "I'll be right over. Which hospital are you at?"

"Mercy General," replies Cho. "But, boss, I don't think you -"

"I'll see you there," she cuts in, and hangs up before he can say another word.

Cho's voice echoes in her mind during the ride over, the words spinning around and around and around until she feels nauseated.

_He's got some pretty deep cuts on his wrist, he lost a lot of blood -_

The drive over feels surreal, like she is traveling through a dream. There seem to be flickers in the time/space continuum, making the world around her appear choppy, fragments of real life that don't quite fit together. One second she is staring at the CBI parking lot, then suddenly the buildings outside her window are moving slowly, almost as if they are warping by, then the traffic light burns red, red, red... sticking for an eternity, and she wonders if it is frozen like that, broken, red, red, red...

... like that damn smiley face, dripping blood... red, red, red...

Green.

She puts her foot flat against the gas and drives.

And all the while, racing through her mind - _He's got some pretty deep cuts on his wrist, he lost a lot of blood -_

He had tried it before, she remembers with a jolt. She remembers the look on his face, the burning intensity behind his eyes, as he told her about Sophie Miller, about why he needed to even _see_ her. About what he had tried to do.

She feels _sick_.

And cold.

And very, very frightened.

Her demands to the nurses are so strong that she is ushered straight to his room within minutes of arriving. The nurse points to room 415 and disappears down the hall. Lisbon stalks closer, eyeing the closed door with a strange concoction of anger and fear boiling within her. Her fingers are already pressing down on the door handle before she hears Cho's voice.

"Boss?"

She pauses, and finally sees that he's sitting on a bench just outside the room, an open newspaper on his lap. She's running on so much adrenaline that she can't even spare a second to ask him where and how he found Jane.

"I'll talk to you in a minute," is all she says, before turning the handle and shoving the door open.

She shuts it behind her, the loud bang satisfying, and watches as Jane throws her a startled glance. He's lying on a hospital bed with his feet propped up, a TV remote in his right hand, arm outstretched as if he is about to change the channel. She can hear high pitched voices screeching from the speakers, some sort of cartoon for children, before her head starts to pound loudly, drowning out all other noises.

Jane is still wearing his three-piece suit, but the sleeve of his left arm is rolled up to accommodate the white bandage wrapped thickly around his wrist.

Lisbon catches sight of it and swallows painfully.

"Do you want to explain to me," she starts lowly, deceptively calm apart from the tremble of anger rolling through her words, "what the hell you were thinking?"

Jane doesn't reply, just looks at her with a blank, vaguely confused expression. He lowers his right arm, letting the TV remote rest against his bed sheets.

She grits her teeth, fighting the emotions warring inside of her. The sight of the empty IV drip next to his bed makes her heart clench, and suddenly she is furious. Within seconds her blood goes from freezing to boiling.

"_What the hell were you thinking?_" she yells, so loudly and sharply that he actually flinches in surprise.

He still doesn't reply, just sits there and watches her silently.

"Do you have any idea - I can't believe you - You _stupid, pea-brained _-"

She is so worked up she can't even get a coherent sentence out. She stands by the closed door, trembling with anger and fear, her pulse pounding in her ears, loud and sharp and piercing. The smell of disinfectant in the air is making her sick, and the pale green walls glare brightly, intimidating, closing in on her.

Jane sits up a little straighter, frowning at her, as Lisbon struggles to keep her composure.

"Don't you _dare_ do that again, do you hear me? Do you have any idea how that made me _feel _-?"

Her voice trembles and breaks, catches on a shard of fear and rips right out of her throat, fraying into silence. Jane swings his legs over the side of the bed, facing her, concern displayed nakedly across his face. Lisbon is horrified to realize her vision is going blurry. She is finding it hard to breathe.

"That was stupid and _selfish_ and I want you to _promise_ me you won't ever do it again, do you hear me?"

Silence.

"Don't you realize by now that there are people who care about you, who need you? I... _I need you._"

The admission slips out before she can stop it, but her upset is so great that this mortification is barely a drop in the ocean. Her vision is swimming, and the only reason she can even see Jane is because he is now standing right in front of her. She concentrates on the grey of his vest, on the stitches and threads of fabric weaving in and out of each other, and attempts to stop her eyes from spilling over. Despite her best efforts a tear escapes, sliding so quickly down her face that it is gone before she has even realized it was there at all.

Jane brushes his thumb against her cheek to wipe away the wetness.

Lisbon slaps him.

Not a punch, not a kick, not a blow. A _slap_. Like an emotional little girl. She brings her palm up to his cheek and strikes it, burning her skin and causing a sharp crack to echo through the room, louder than those stupid cartoon characters.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she snarls, snatching his hand from her wet cheek and flinging it away.

Jane is obviously startled, but he takes a step closer. He still looks concerned, but his confusion seems to be overriding all other emotions, written clearly across his features.

"I - I can't even look at you right now," she mutters. "I've had it - with - with your silence, and what happened _today_ - that's it. Hoffstader's clearly not doing enough, you're going back to see Sophie Miller, whether you like it or not, and she is going to _goddamn_ help you if it's the last thing she does."

Sophie Miller.

As soon as he hears the name a lightbulb seems to shine above his head.

(She wonders if those cartoons are getting to her sanity.)

He shakes his head frantically, holding his hands up in what she assumes is meant to be innocence. Lisbon feels her blood boiling over, and she is so frustrated and so goddamn tired that she fears she will snap in half and then splinter into a million pieces.

"_No_, I don't _care_ whether you want to or not, you're _going_ to do it!" A hesitant pause. "Please, Jane. You have no idea how that made me - feel... to find out you tried to _kill_ yourself..."

A fervent shake of his head makes Lisbon pause, and in that split second of silence Jane crosses the gap between them to place his hands on her shoulders. He shakes her gently, staring into her eyes, trying to get something across. Lisbon gazes back, wilting as her anger disappears. Not even the warmth of Jane's hands can cure the cold devastation that has settled in her bones.

There's a knock at the door, and Cho pokes his head through. If he looks surprised by how close they are standing, Jane's hands still lingering on her shoulders, he doesn't show it.

"Uh, Boss?" he starts. "Didn't mean to overhear, but it wasn't a suicide attempt."

Jane's eyes burn into her. She blinks at Cho.

"What?"

"It wasn't a suicide attempt," he repeats. "Denver pushed him through a broken window at the house. The glass cut him up pretty bad."

_What?_

Well.

Now she feels stupid.

"... oh."

Lisbon's voice is small as she looks at the ground. Her mind refreshes their entire conversation, and she wants to shrink with mortification. She is embarrassed now at how much of herself she has revealed, at how many emotions she has displayed.

_I need you_.

Oh, God, had she really said that?

She wants to melt into a puddle on the floor, fade away, disappear. She awkwardly shrugs out of Jane's grasp, twisting halfway to avoid looking at his face. She takes a step back and feels his hands slide off her shoulders.

Still avoiding his gaze, she mutters an awkward and stilted, "Oh, well - that's... that's good. Okay. I'm gonna go now."

Then she slinks out of the room before Jane can stop her.

It's good.

It is.

Apart from the fact that Jane knows things about her that will make it hard to face him tomorrow.

_I need you_.

Oh, God.

Lisbon has never needed anyone.

But some truths are just undeniable.


	7. Volume Seven

**Author's Note: I have no idea what happens when you dial 911 as I've never had to do it (touch wood!), so please excuse any mistakes. Also please continue to review! They make me smile. :)**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Seven**

_Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute. - Josh Billings_

* * *

><p>As it turns out, Lisbon is able to face Jane just fine the next day, and during the weeks that follow. For the first time, she secretly - and selfishly - is glad that he refuses to speak, because it means he can't tease her about her admission.<p>

She won't bring it up again, and obviously he won't either, so they're just fine.

Really.

If he stands a little closer to her than normal, that's just her imagination. If his palm is warmer against the small of her back, that's just oversensitive nerves. If his scent is stronger - bergamot and sunshine and the barest hint of musk - it's just heightened senses.

If she can actually feel his breath against the back of her shoulder, warm and soft, that's just... the wind. Yes.

She clears her throat and takes a step forwards, away from his proximity.

"Come on," she murmurs, "I think that's Varro's place over there."

They're at a secluded cottage high up in the mountains, attempting to reach their suspect Varro, who until now has avoided all manner of contact. Insects buzz around them, the smell of pine thick in the hot air, rocks sliding under Lisbon's boots as she heads up the gravel driveway. Jane is hot on her heels as she climbs up the steps of the front porch, peeking around the back terrace to make sure Varro's not there. She knocks on the door once, twice, waits for an answer.

Nothing.

She glances at Jane, who shrugs and urges her to go ahead.

She knocks again.

"Mr. Varro?" she calls through the door. "We're with the California Bureau of Investigation, we just want to ask you a few questions."

Still nothing.

"Okay," she whispers to Jane. "Stay behind me, he might be -"

She's interrupted by a slight shuffling noise coming from the back of the cottage and she falls silent, listening. There's a muffled bang, then a slight scraping, quiet footsteps dragging along the back terrace.

She places a finger to her lips and takes out her gun, creeping along the side of the wooden cottage. Jane holds his palms out as if to say, _What do I do?_ She gestures for him to stay there and shifts sideways, the gun held carefully in front of her.

She reaches the corner and peeks her head around in time to see a tall, thickset man closing the back door. Lisbon steps onto the back porch and holds her gun out, aiming at who she assumes is Varro.

"CBI," she calls out.

The man freezes, a wooden baseball bat held loosely at his side, one foot in front of the other.

_Baseball bat? Why the hell does he have a baseball bat?_

"Put your hands above your head," orders Lisbon. "If you cooperate this'll be fine, otherwise I'm gonna have to arrest you."

Varro hesitates, then grips the baseball bat tighter and ducks, making a run for it.

"Shit," curses Lisbon, then shouts, "Freeze!"

The man ignores her.

Lisbon lowers her gun, reluctant to actually shoot, and chases after him, her footsteps pounding against the wood. The man attempts to dodge a table, bangs into the edge of it and falls over, which gives Lisbon time to catch up. Varro's just getting to his feet when Lisbon tackles him right back to the ground again. She gets the wind knocked out of her, but at least she has Varro to cushion her fall. She rolls off of his body, trying to drag his hands behind him, forcing him face-first to the ground with her knee on his back.

She reaches for her handcuffs, and Varro takes advantage of that split second of distraction. He flips her over, slamming the back of her head into the ground, then grabs his bat and stumbles to his feet.

The world is spinning, but Lisbon manages to catch his ankle in an attempt to trip him. She sits up, holding on to his jeans, but is too dizzy to stand.

Then all of a sudden Varro is swinging the bat in front of her.

The wood slams into her shoulder with a loud thud, right above where her bullet scar is. There's a flash of white hot lightning burning her muscle, a red knife stabbing her bone, pain curling over her skin from the inside out, so intense she can't help crying out.

The world fades to black.

The next thing she becomes aware of is labored panting somewhere above her, a hand in her hair, cradling the back of her head, warm and soft...

And _pain_.

It radiates from her shoulder, spikes of electricity shooting down her arm and across her collarbone. Her shoulder is on fire, is being sliced and scraped and torn to pieces on the inside, the muscles and ligaments and tendons cut and severed and ripped.

She hears noise. Someone talking? The voice sounds tinny and crackled and unfamiliar, very faint.

"911 emergency services, how can we help you?"

Lisbon holds her breath, hardly daring to move, unable to stop the world from tilting back and forth beneath her, even behind closed eyelids.

No one answers.

"911 emergency services," the voice repeats as if from far away. "What seems to be the problem?"

The breathing above her is rough and shallow.

Lisbon finally opens her eyes to see Jane kneeling above her, a cell phone held to his hand, panicked breaths drifting down the receiver. He looks frantic, his eyes wild, his face pale, the phone shaking in his hand.

"911 emergency services," the voice repeats yet again. "If you cannot vocalize the problem, please tap twice."

Jane taps against the ground twice in quick succession.

"We will now attempt to locate you using the GPS device in your phone. Please stay on the line. Unfortunately, this could take a while, so if you are able to give us your location we can arrive there much sooner."

Jane's fingers clench in her hair a little, tangling in the strands near her scalp. He scrubs his face with the back of his hand, then brings the phone back to his ear and opens his mouth.

He freezes, obviously torn, devastated and unsure if he can do it.

A strangled sound escapes his mouth, less of a word and more of a panicked garble.

He tries again and this time a syllable comes out - "ah -" but Lisbon can tell this is killing him, can read it in the scrunch of his brows, in his crinkled eyes and downturned mouth, in the white of his knuckles.

She musters up the energy to speak.

"Jane," she croaks.

His eyes snap back to hers and he drops the phone. She can hear the dial tone as it hits the ground. His free hand darts to her face, brushing her hair away messily, feeling for any bumps at the back of her head.

She tries to swat his hand away.

"'M okay," she mumbles.

He places his hand near her eye, gently pulling the lids apart, checking to see if her pupil is dilated. He does the same with her other eye, then puts one finger up and drags it back and forth, left to right then right to left, indicating for her to follow.

"Jane, 'm fine," she huffs. "I don't have a concussion."

He raises his eyebrows skeptically.

"How long was I out?" she asks.

He holds up his free hand, all five fingers reaching upwards.

"Five minutes?"

He shakes his head and twirls his finger around, indicating more.

"Ten?"

He wiggles his hand and tilts his head from side to side. About ten minutes.

Aw sheep dip. That means Varro's long gone.

She sighs, then says, "Okay, help me sit up."

He looks worried, the corners of his mouth pulling down, but he complies, one hand still cradling the back of her head, tangled in her hair. Her left arm hangs uselessly by her side, aching terribly. She tries to move it and freezes instantly.

_FUCK._

Fuck, that hurt.

Her breath hitches and her face scrunches up with pain.

Jane looks alarmed, his free hand darting around her, not daring to touch in case he makes it worse. His other hand remains in her hair, fingers soothing against her scalp.

She swallows painfully.

"I think - I think my shoulder's been dislocated."

He is watching her carefully, his fingers stroking almost hypnotically against her hair, his other hand hovering near her injured arm. Lisbon looks down at it and grimaces. Definitely dislocated. She looks back and stares into Jane's eyes, wondering if she can make him do this.

"Um, I - I think you're gonna have to help me set it," she tells him, voice timid.

He recoils his head, widening his eyes but not breaking contact. He holds out his hand, palm turned upwards, and shakes his head. _I can't. I don't know how_.

"_Talk me through it_," he had said when she had been strapped to that bomb. She remembers how gentle he had been, how careful. How he had stayed by her side, even when she had ordered him to leave.

Why is it always Jane that winds up helping her?

"It's okay," she tells him, sitting up straighter. "I'll talk you through it."

He shakes his head again, mouth turned down firmly, staring at her with no small amount of fear. She's sure her eyes are just as frightened.

"Jane, I can't drive back like this. That road's too bumpy, it'll be too painful. You can do this, I know you can. You've got to."

She can see him swallow, even though her eyes never leave his. He nods once and scoots closer to her, kneeling by her injured arm. She can feel his warmth through her jeans. He never takes his eyes off of hers.

"Okay," she starts, and can't hide how her voice is trembling. "Um, you're going to need both hands."

He slides his hand out from under her hair. She already misses the contact.

"Pull the sleeve of my t-shirt up so you can see my shoulder."

He gently grasps the fabric and starts to pull it up. Even that careful touch jars her skin, and she winces. Jane looks apologetic, but he continues to pull the fabric up until her shoulder is bared.

The edge of her scar becomes visible, a piece of raised flesh still tinged purple, mottled and glaring. Jane stares at it, transfixed, unable to drag his eyes away. She wonders what he is thinking.

Now is so not the time.

She clears her throat, and he slides his eyes back to hers.

"Okay, put one hand on my shoulder - no, not there, closer to my neck," she adds hurriedly. "It's just to keep me in place. Now use your other hand to grab my arm - higher," she adds.

He curls his fingers around her upper arm as gently as he can, but the action still causes her arm to move, fire licking her shoulder. She grits her teeth.

"Um, now you need to rotate my arm - slowly."

He hesitates, but starts to carefully move her arm. She draws in a sharp breath at the pain, unable to stop a whimper escaping, and Jane freezes. He stares at her, mouth a little open, eyebrows furrowed but his eyes wide, clearly unsure if he should continue.

"'M alright," she croaks.

Jane's fingers loosen at the hitch in her voice, and he shakes his head, already starting to pull away.

"No, Jane, it's okay," she breathes. "It's gonna hurt no matter who does it. It's okay. I need you to do this for me."

He swallows, but curls his fingers back around her arm. She grits her teeth and shuts her eyes as Jane starts to rotate her arm again. Her breathing is shallow and uneven, hitching every now and then as particularly sharp spikes of pain shoot down her arm.

"It might take - a while," she warns him, still not opening her eyes. "Sometimes it can - take up to ten - ten minutes."

Jane doesn't reply, but he continues to carefully move her arm, his other hand pressing down on the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, warm and steady. He looks like he is going to be sick, his skin tinged a light green.

She hears a quiet popping sound, and suddenly the pain is lessened. She exhales a shaking breath, and can hear Jane do the same next to her. He stops rotating her arm, and she looks at him, trying to smile.

"You did it," she says gratefully. "Maybe you do have magic hands."

He's watching her without a smile, not a trace of humor on his face. He looks pale and drawn, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes crinkled downwards with worry.

He's glaring at her as if to say, _Don't you dare make me do that ever again._

"I'm alright, Jane," she tells him, puzzled by his behavior.

He nods, brushing his fingers against her shoulder as if to check it's back in place. The touch still causes a little pain, and she draws in a sharp breath. She expects him to pull his fingers back, but instead he slides them up towards her neck, careful and slow. They linger against her jaw, soft and tentative, before sliding behind her ear, tangling in her hair.

Lisbon is suddenly finding it hard to breathe for a whole different reason.

She stares into his eyes, trying to read him and sure she is failing - because what she sees in them _can't_ be real.

"Jane, what -?" she starts warily.

She doesn't get to finish. Jane cuts her off, pressing his lips against hers, drowning her muffled words.

Jane is... kissing her.

_Kissing her_.

Her heart lurches, lightning curling inside of her.

His lips are warm and soft, his mouth hot and wet as it slides against hers. He takes careful nips, then steals a bruising kiss, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His faint stubble is rough against her chin, a sharp contrast to his soft tongue, and Lisbon feels herself melting, drowning drowning drowning, burning burning burning...

Then he pulls away.

She is left gasping for air and grasping for coherent thought.

_What -?_

_Jane just kissed her_.

Was that _real_?

His hands are still cradling her face, his thumbs on her jaw, his fingers in her hair, warm and light.

That was definitely real.

Why did he _stop?_

She reaches upwards and clumsily presses her lips to his. Jane lets her, for a moment; he gives in, kissing her back, taking her top lip between his, nipping at her bottom lip, letting his tongue brush against hers...

Then he pulls away again.

He shakes his head and lowers his eyes, not daring to look at her.

His face is wet. She can see the area under his eyes glinting in the sunlight as he moves.

He's... _crying._

She tries to bring a hand up to his face, but he shakes his head again and she lets it drop, feeling a weight settle in her stomach, like she has swallowed a rock.

"Jane..."

He's still shaking his head, and she knows without question what that means. _I can't do this_.

"Why?" she asks helplessly.

She doesn't even really know what she is asking.

Why did he kiss her?

Why did he stop?

Why is he ending them before they ever really began?

He doesn't reply, just keeps shaking his head and staring at the ground.

She can suddenly feel the cool, hard metal of his wedding ring against the side of her head. How had she not noticed that before? It's cold, but Lisbon feels as if the freeze is scalding her. Her heart drops.

"Is this..." she stops, unsure if she can really ask. "Is this because of your... wife? Do you still...?"

She can't ask it. She can't drudge up the words. She feels sick.

Jane presses his forehead against hers, breathing onto her face, and she closes her eyes. She can feel him shake his head again. _No_.

"Then _why_?" she demands.

His hands are still on her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks, forehead pressed against hers, lips barely inches away.

He doesn't reply, just continues to shake his head.

"Why won't you let this happen?" she whispers.

Nothing.

"Do you not...?" she swallows, then tries again. "Do you not w...?"

She can't do it. She can't put herself out there like that, can't leave herself exposed and vulnerable. Can't hear Jane's answer - in case it's the wrong one.

She refuses to ask it out loud, but the question spins in her head.

Do you not want it to happen?

... Do you not want _me?_

She doesn't know whether Jane heard what she didn't say, but he stops shaking his head. He lifts it up and places a fierce kiss to her forehead, above her bangs, lingering for a long moment. It feels strangely like a goodbye. He draws back, pulling his hands away, rubbing his eyes to wipe off the moisture. He stands up.

Lisbon is cold and defeated, sitting alone on the floor, wondering where this went wrong. As her heartbeat slows down she notices that her shoulder still aches. She'll have to get that looked at.

"Help me up," she mutters. "You're gonna have to drive me to the hospital."

The drive is spent in silence. Jane waits for her at the hospital, then drops her off at her house with a sad little smile. She's too confused to smile back.

_What the hell just happened?_


	8. Volume Eight

**Author's Note: Sorry it took a while to update! Real life got in the way. So this is the chapter I'm most nervous about posting... and the one I had the most trouble with. I feel like maybe it's too obvious, too in-your-face about Jane's PTSD, and that maybe the explanation takes something away from the story. So please let me know what you think! And constructive criticism is welcome, of course. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Eight**

_I have often regretted my speech, never my silence._

_- Publilius Syrus_

* * *

><p>Jane isn't a cruel man. A little selfish sometimes, and unconcerned about other's feelings occasionally, on his bad days, but he isn't cruel.<p>

Which is why Lisbon can't understand why he would dangle something like that in front of her and then snatch it away. Kiss her and then leave. Offer the chance of something... _more _between them, and then back out.

It doesn't make sense.

Did he not want it?

Jane never does something he doesn't want to do. He's like a child that way. So he wanted to kiss her?

Then why did he stop?

And why is he now acting... like _this_?

She had thought he would distance himself, spend more time away from her, maybe even go so far as to retreat back to the attic. She had thought he would avoid all those intimate little things they do, the conversations with their eyes and his hand on the small of her back and the way they tease each other.

But if anything, he's upped the ante.

Jane almost never spends time in the bullpen anymore, instead preferring to lay on the couch in her office and watch her as she works, smiling at the way she tries and fails to ignore him. He finds unnecessary reasons to touch her - grabbing her wrist to check her watch, bumping shoulders with her as he comes to stand next to her, stroking his fingers against her pulse whenever he passes her something... even going so far as to reach out and brush the bangs out of her eyes when they're alone.

She never knows how to react to any of this.

Even when they're expected, Lisbon is pretty terrible at responding to flirtatious gestures.

When they're unexpected... when they're coming from _Jane_, of all people...

She's lost.

Mostly she blushes, stutters, and tries to avoid looking at him. He grins with delight at her awkwardness, then leaves her alone to compose herself while his grin dissolves into what she could only rightly call a _tender_ smile.

It leaves her flummoxed, uncertain, and very self-conscious.

It's almost like he is trying to woo her, in his old-fashioned way.

But that makes no sense.

When he kissed her that day, he made it clear that either he couldn't, or wouldn't, do it again.

So why the flirting? (There's really no other word for it. He's _flirting_ with her.)

Is this a game to him?

Surely Jane wouldn't be that cruel, wouldn't toy with her emotions that way. And he must know, _he must_, what this is doing to her. He must know the way her breath catches when he smiles at her just a little too widely, the way lightning curls in her belly when his eyes linger on her just a little too long, dark and appreciative. He has to know that when he stands that close to her she finds it hard to concentrate on anything but him, has to know that she welcomes his silent company more than any conversation with anyone else.

He has to know that he holds her heart in his hand.

Lisbon frowns into her glass of wine as she sits alone in her living room and ponders the same questions that have been running through her head for weeks.

Is this a game to him?

Does he want her or not?

And how on earth is she meant to respond when she doesn't even know what he means?

The phone rings, startling her out of her muddled thoughts. She places her half empty wine glass on the coffee table and stretches for it. Her shoulders are stiff from sitting still for too long, brooding, and the stretch pulls her muscles, creating a pleasant strain.

The screen of her cell phone lights up on the second ring, casting an eerie blue light across the room. She wonders when it got so dark, and how she didn't notice.

The phone rings a third time before she reaches it, and she answers, "Lisbon."

"Hi, this is Dr. Hoffstader," comes the clipped voice from the other end of the line, and Lisbon freezes.

She suddenly feels cold with dread. The blue light creates long shadows that give the entire space a foreboding air.

Why would Jane's therapist be calling her?

This can't be good news.

She picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one gulp, the red liquid sliding down her throat hotly, burning her insides. She's left with a bitter aftertaste on her tongue, sharp and sour.

"Is this a bad time?" continues the voice after a long pause.

"No, no, this is fine," she replies quickly, wary of what the doctor has to say. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, of course, there's nothing to worry about. I was actually calling for a bit of a favor."

Lisbon's eyebrows raise of their own accord, and she blinks.

"A favor?"

"Well, I was hoping you could figure something out for me."

"Um, I can try, I guess," offers Lisbon, puzzled and curious. She frowns. "Is this about Jane?"

"Yes, actually."

Lisbon waits, but Hoffstader doesn't offer more. Slightly worried, but more curious than anything, she presses, "What is it?"

"Does this mean anything to you? _Thirteen, colon, three,"_ recites Hoffstader.

Lisbon blinks again, curiosity warping into confusion. She chews on her lip as she thinks, running the phrase over and over again in her head.

Thirteen, colon, three.

Nothing springs to mind immediately.

Maybe she is thinking too generally. She should be trying to think about how the phrase relates to Jane specifically.

Thirteen, colon, three.

...Still nothing.

"'M sorry, I have no idea what that means. Is there a reason you're asking me?"

"Yes," sighs Hoffstader, obviously disappointed at the lack of results. "Patrick gave it to me as a message -"

"Jane _spoke?_" cuts in Lisbon, startled.

"No, no, he wrote it down."

"I don't understand," presses Lisbon with anxiety and frustration. "Jane refuses to use words at all - no writing, no sign language -"

"No, you're misunderstanding me, he wrote it down in _numbers_," continues Hoffstader patiently.

"Oh," is all Lisbon can reply with, her frown deepening even more with puzzlement.

Not thirteen, colon, three.

13:3.

She still has no idea what it means, or why Jane would be writing it at all.

"I'm sorry, I still can't help you. Maybe if you let me know what the message was in reference to?"

Hoffstader clucks her tongue, clearly hesitant, then decides to go through with it. "I asked him why he was still refusing to speak, and he wrote this down on a piece of paper."

Lisbon's disbelief is so great that she actually brings the phone away from her ear to stare at it, making sure this is real, before putting it back.

So far Jane has just shrugged every time that question was asked, but now he's actually trying to _respond_ -?

"Naturally," continues Hoffstader, and Lisbon snaps out of her thoughts to pay attention, "when asked what it meant he wouldn't tell me. But he did indicate that it might mean something to _you_."

Lisbon flushes. She's not sure whether it is because Hoffstader has sussed out their closeness, or because Jane himself is acknowledging it, is practically depending on it.

She has to physically shake her head to drag herself out of these thoughts and try to concentrate.

13:3.

What does 13:3 mean to Jane? What does 13:3 mean to her?

Not a darn thing, in all honesty.

A date? There is no thirteenth month, and she can't remember anything significant happening around March 13th.

A time? But 13:3 isn't even a real time. 3:31 backwards, perhaps? Why the hell would it be backwards, and what does 3:31, AM or PM, have to do with anything?

An alphabetic code? The thirteenth letter is M, the third is C. M:C. What does M:C stand for?

"I'm sorry," she eventually replies hopelessly, defeat and confusion mingling within her. "I have no idea what it means."

"Alright," sighs Hoffstader, her long exhalation echoing down the line. "Just give me a call if you come up with any theories. I know you'd like to help in any way you can."

Lisbon flushes again, but finds herself half-smiling anyway.

"Of course. I will. Take care."

"You too. Goodbye."

She hangs up her cell phone and leans back against the couch, staring into the darkness of her living room.

13:3.

She racks her brain desperately, searching as hard as she can for anything that could even be closely related. Jane is giving them a clue, is giving _her_ a clue, something that only _she_ can understand. He's depending on her.

And she can't figure it out.

She has never felt so frustrated with herself, not even when she was being drugged and couldn't remember if she had murdered McTeer or not. This is so much worse, because this is _Jane needing her_, and she can't help him, no matter how hard she tries. She just can't give any relevance to the numbers.

What on earth is Jane trying to tell her?

She scrunches her eyes shut and rubs her face in distress, her nerves thrumming with an anxious energy. She sits there in the dark for what could be seconds or years, futilely wracking her brain.

_Jane needs this_. _This could help him, could fix him, could save him_.

Maybe she's trying too hard. Maybe she needs to sleep on it; maybe when she lets it recede to the back of her mind the puzzle will work itself out.

She stands up, feeling her bones pop and crack, feeling her muscles strain and ache. She picks up her wine glass and heads towards the kitchen, when something on her bookshelf catches her eye. Her old Bible sits at eye-level, the faded gold lettering glinting at her in the low light coming from the kitchen.

13:3.

Could it be...?

No, Jane isn't religious.

But he knows _she _is.

Lisbon plunks her wine glass on the shelf and hastily reaches for the old leather book, leafing quickly through the thin pages until she finds the right one.

Proverb 13:3.

"_He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life; but he that openeth wide his lips shall have destruction."_

She reads the words aloud, and feels her heart clench so painfully she wonders if it's broken.

Oh, Jane.

She feels sick.

"_... he that openeth wide his lips shall have destruction."_

Red John's death had more consequences than she had ever imagined, triggering a semi mental breakdown. It damaged a part of Jane's rationality, compromised his very judgement, destroyed some aspect of his logic.

Jane has always had an obsessive personality, she knows this, even before they met. He was obsessed with making money and making it big for himself and his family, then became obsessed with hunting Red John, sticking to this vengeance as a way to keep himself in control and focused. Now he is clinging to this selective mutism as if it is the only thing that keeps his world from imploding.

Jane is _scared_.

She suddenly remembers his reaction to being filmed a few years ago, his reluctance to appear in front of the camera, the way her heart had locked up in her chest at his admission.

"_Last time I was in front of a camera things, uh, didn't turn out so well."_

_A beat of horrified silence._

"_Oh, God, Jane, I'm sorry."_

"_You don't need to be sorry."_

"_You_ don't need to be sorry," he had said, with the silent "_I_ do," tacked on to the end.

On some level he obviously still believes it was his fault, still believes that his words were what murdered his wife and daughter. He may recognize logically that this isn't true, that it was Red John's hand that committed the crime... but he still _feels_ the guilt.

Now he's frightened that he'll make the same mistake again, that he'll say the wrong thing and someone will get hurt.

Stupid, foolish man.

_It wasn't his fault_.

He still feels that it is.

He also clearly - and irrationally - still fears that it could happen again.

Oh, _Jane_.

Lisbon's heart hurts for him, a deep ache that settles in her bones, full of longing and sadness, so painful that it makes her breath catch. She wants to see him, wants to hug him and reassure him that it wasn't his fault, that it had _never_ been his fault. She wants to promise him that it won't happen again, that he doesn't need to be afraid, that it's okay to talk. She wants to run to him and wrap her arms around him and never leave him alone again.

But she would feel way too awkward to actually do any of that. (Unless he _wanted_ it. Does he?)

So what should she do?

She'll have to decide what to say to Jane when she actually sees him.

She has to call Dr. Hoffstader first, anyway.

As it turns out, she doesn't get to see him again until they're called in the next day to investigate a double homicide near the border of Nevada. The CBI has payed for them to fly there, so she meets the rest of the team at the airport.

"Morning, Boss," calls out Rigsby, sitting and eating a donut by the gate.

Van Pelt sits next to him - slightly closer than Lisbon is willing to acknowledge - and gives her a smile.

Cho just nods.

Jane grins and jumps to his feet, offering her his seat. She raises her eyebrows but gives him a smile in return, accepting the only available place. She studies him discreetly as he heads to get a cup of tea, expecting to somehow see his irrational fear echoing off of him, rolling in subtle waves. She expects to feel different now that she knows, to maybe see him in another light, but in all honesty he looks the same.

She wonders if she should bring it up with him, or leave it to Dr. Hoffstader.

Which brings her back to her original questions.

Did Jane leave her the message because he knew she was the only one who would understand it? (Her heart sinks, though she feels selfish for it.)

Or did he leave her the message because she was the only one he was _willing_ to confide in? (Her heart flutters back up.)

Either way, she doesn't know if or when she should mention it.

Does he even know that she knows?

Jane returns, a steaming cup of Earl Grey in his hand, and comes to stand next to her, rocking back and forth on his heels. He blows on the liquid to cool it down, catches Lisbon staring, and grins widely when she ducks her head, embarrassed.

She catches sight of Jane's boarding pass sticking out of his pocket, reads the seat number.

She decides to drop the issue of his irrational fear. If the moment presents itself, she'll take the chance; if not, she'll let Dr. Hoffstader try her best.

For now, she has to worry about a whole flight being seated next to Jane.

He grins at her again, eyes twinkling with mischief, and she can't decide whether to dread or look forward to it.


	9. Volume Nine

**Author's Note: Mmmm, I have mixed feelings about the season premiere. But, it did encourage me to update, so here you go! Warning: serious fluff. Like, a lot. One chapter left after this!**

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><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Nine**

_How easy it would be to show me how you feel_

_More than words is all you have to do to make it real_

_Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me_

'_Cause I'd already know_

_Nuno Bettancourt and Gary Cherone_

* * *

><p>Seriously, what are the chances of her getting a middle seat? One in three. She was twice as likely to get a window or an aisle, and instead she ends up being stuck in the middle, sandwiched between two men.<p>

Lisbon scowls, rearranging her legs in what little space she has, letting out a frustrated huff.

Jane, sitting by the window, grins and pats her knee.

She scowls at him.

She's tired, having slept very little the night before, preoccupied with thoughts of Jane and Red John and irrational feelings. She's uncomfortable, her legs cramping up, her arms crossed since both men have taken over the armrests. She wants to sleep, but the headrest is too thick and her head keeps drooping down, making her neck ache.

At least Jane can rest his head against the window. At least the man to her left can stretch his legs out in the aisle.

She sighs irritably and lets her arms flop down. Her hand brushes against the stranger's, and she pulls it back.

"Sorry," she murmurs.

"Oh, it's no problem at all," replies the man, turning to catch her eye and smile at her.

She flashes him a polite but brief smile, hardly noticing him, already flicking her eyes away before he continues to speak.

"Here, you can have the armrest. I've at least got the aisle."

She glances at him again, takes him in more fully, surprised by his charm and his offer. He's very attractive, she can't help but notice. Dark hair, high cheekbones, strong jaw. His smile is confident and suave, his teeth pearly white.

"Thanks," she replies, placing her arm down.

She can see Jane out of the corner of her eye, watching them, but can't make out his expression. He stubbornly leaves his own arm on his armrest. She is sure he is doing it just to annoy her.

"So are you here on business?" asks the man, twisting his torso just the slightest bit, leaning into her subtly.

"Yeah," she replies.

"What do you do?" he continues.

Jane shakes out his legs. Lisbon ignores him.

"I work for the CBI."

"Oh, sounds serious," he laughs. "What brings you out this way?"

Jane drums his fingers against the armrest. Lisbon continues to ignore him.

"A murder investigation."

He blinks, taken aback, but recovers quickly.

"So you're going to be in town for a while, then?" he asks, staring into her eyes, flashing his most charming smile.

It takes Lisbon a while, but she eventually realizes that he is flirting with her. She blinks, caught off guard.

"Ah -" she starts, smiling with bafflement and disbelief, unsure how to continue.

It turns out she doesn't have to.

Jane's hand drifts down from the armrest to settle squarely on her thigh. It is large and warm, his body heat seeping through her pants to warm her skin pleasantly. The gesture is clearly possessive and territorial.

The man wisely decides to back off, excusing himself to head to the restroom.

Lisbon has a much harder time deciding what to do.

She knows she should be mad at Jane for assuming she wasn't interested in the man's overtures, for claiming ownership that she hasn't actually given him.

Jane has no right to act like she is his.

But in all honesty, she _is_. And the possessive action, rather than causing an outburst of indignation, instead makes her heart flutter warmly.

Bastard.

Never mind reacting to the man's flirting, how the hell is she now meant to respond to Jane?

All she manages to do is splutter out quietly, "Jane, what the - what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Her voice is baffled and irritated, the hiss making it sound almost angry. She's pleased at how well she has managed to keep her composure. Jane hears the indignation and swallows, his fingers flexing on her leg.

But when he turns to look at her, she can't deny the blush on her cheeks or the flattered upturn of her lips.

Or the fact that she hasn't shaken his hand off.

She looks down at it in order to avoid his eyes, frowning as she tries to mask her feelings the way he normally does. His skin is smooth and tan and...

... _lacking a ring?_

Her heart gives an odd thud, then kickstarts into triple speed.

She flashes her eyes to his, an instant of lightning where she can see him watching her carefully, then looks back down, expecting to have just imagined it.

The ring is still conspicuously absent.

There isn't even a tan line where it used to be.

He must have taken it off _weeks_ ago. How had she not noticed?

She stares back at him, wondering what he can see in her face, wondering what she can see in his. There's an ache in her lungs that makes her mind spin, and she forces herself to breathe. Her heart is racing so hard she wonders if he can hear it.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she stretches her own hand out to cover his. Jane looks down sharply, watching as her slim fingers slide over his. Her thumb rests on his ring finger, stroking the skin that used to be covered, nervous and questioning.

She can almost taste the static in the air as Jane realizes what she has noticed.

One corner of his mouth quirks up uncertainly, questioning and almost shy. His eyes are wide and sincere, open and trusting. His flippant and careless mask is completely gone.

She can feel the heat on her skin, the pounding of her heart, the rush in her blood.

He curls his fingers slightly upwards and then back down, intertwining fully with hers.

She squeezes back.

He lets out a pleased, shy little grin, his eyes crinkling up. He leans his head back, closes his eyes and takes a nap. She can see a smug little smirk curling around his lip, full of male pride and ego, which amuses her to no end.

Her face is warm, her heart fluttering with the knowledge that Jane _wants_ her to be his. She can't stop smiling, though she tries to hide it with a scowl.

(She's also really glad the rest of the team is seated at the very back of the plane.)

When her pulse slows down enough that she can think coherently again, she leans her head back and closes her eyes as well, tries to fall asleep. She keeps drifting off, the world going hazy and muffled, slipping away... until her head drops forward and she startles awake with a jolt. She sighs irritably, her eyes popping open.

Goddammit, she's uncomfortable.

She looks at Jane out of the corner of her eye, sleeping next to her.

Could she...?

She glances down at their joined hands on her lap, remembers Jane's open and vulnerable expression just a few moments ago.

Why not?

She tentatively leans her head against his shoulder, warm and sturdy beneath her. She half expects him to tense or pull away, or even not react at all if he's really asleep. Instead, he nudges closer, wiggling his shoulder until the top of her head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck. She nestles even closer, closerclosercloser, hiding her bashful smile in his jacket. She can smell him all around her, so perfectly _Jane_, tea leaves and sandalwood and sunlight; can feel the fabric of his suit against her cheek, his warm neck against her hair.

He shifts and presses a featherlight kiss to the top of her head.

And just like that, no words needed, they move beyond the borders of friendship into something... more, some unknown land that is at once both terrifying and exciting.

He becomes very tactile, touching her as if she is the only thing that keeps him grounded. He rests his hand on her hip, brushes her hair behind her ears, lets his fingers deftly work out the knots in her neck. He leans against her on the couch, resting his head on top of hers, lacing their hands together. He traces random patterns against her spine as she works, twirls the ends of her hair around as she talks, plays with her fingers as she discusses theories on the case.

"Jane, are you even listening at all?" she rolls her eyes.

He nods, but his impish grin suggests otherwise.

Her phone rings and she gets off the couch to answer it, leaving Jane pouting on his own. It's Van Pelt on the other line, letting her know how the interview went.

"Great," she replies, peeking through her closed blinds to see what's going on in the bullpen.

"Was there anything else you wanted me to do?" asks Van Pelt.

Something blows in her ear, and she jumps about a mile off the ground. She turns around to glare at Jane, who is standing behind her, hands laced together innocently.

"Boss?" presses Van Pelt.

Jane takes a step closer until he stands right behind her, blowing lightly against her ear lobe. He presses his lips against the skin of her neck, a butterfly kiss that she can barely feel, then brushes her hair to one side so he can work his way down to her shoulder.

Lisbon's eyelids flutter shut of their own accord, before she swats him away.

"Jane, stop it!" she hisses, then returns to the phone. "No, thanks, Van Pelt. I think that's it for now. Come back and take a look at Morton's phone records, see if anything stands out."

"Sure, boss."

She hangs up and glares at Jane. It isn't nearly as effective as normal, because she can't quite quell her smile.

He frequently drags her out of the CBI building for coffee (and tea) breaks, brings her takeout lunch that they eat together in her office.

One night he randomly shows up at her house and proceeds to cook dinner, pottering around her kitchen as if it's his own. She watches with bemusement, flipping through channels on her TV until something decent comes on. They eat in silence, laughing at the comedy show, then she washes the dishes and returns to finish the episode. Some time later she feels Jane shifting next to her, then her toes curl and her smile grows as he leans his head on her lap, stretching out beside her. She hesitates, unsure where to rest her hands, then gives in and places one on his neck and the other in his hair.

She will so never admit that she has always been kind of in love with his hair.

She plays with the curls, winding her fingers through them, stroking lightly against his scalp. It still feels surreal that she is allowed to do this, that he _wants_ her to. He closes his eyes and hums, a faint smile whispering around his lips. He snuggles closer into her lap, and she bites her lip to hide her own pleased smile.

When her birthday rolls around she expects another outlandish gift from Jane, something so ridiculously over the top that she doesn't know how to react to it, like that pony. But she ends up staying late in the office, kept company by only three moderate gifts from the team and not even a word from Jane.

She's disappointed.

She feels stupid for it - because honestly how self-centered is she to be upset that 'daddy didn't get her a pony'? - but she has to admit that she had wanted... something. Anything. Even just an acknowledgement.

She huffs out a breath of air, then stands up and goes to the break room to make a cup of coffee.

So Jane didn't get her a present. Big deal. It's not like she needed one. It's not important.

The coffee tastes more bitter than usual on her tongue, but she refuses to add more sugar.

She heads back to her office and sits in her chair, placing her coffee on the desk. She is about to pick up the latest file when she pauses, staring with puzzlement.

There's a purple heart resting on the paper. It's tiny, the size of her thumbnail, plump and a little misshapen, but it is definitely a heart. She picks it up and feels the chalky surface beneath her fingers, turns it over and over, her pulse skipping a beat.

She knows only one person who would have left this here.

Where the hell did he even get Valentine's Sweethearts at this time of year?

She hears her door open and looks up from studying the candy heart. Jane stands in the doorway, his gaze warm and soft. She holds up the candy and looks at him, asking with her eyes. A corner of his mouth quirks up, a lopsided smirk that makes her stomach flutter.

She ducks her head and grins, then places the candy in her mouth and starts to chew. It's sweet, but she's caught off guard by the texture, just like she is every year. It dissolves in her mouth, not even granules of sugar, but fine powder, dry and dusty, like eating fruit-flavored chalk.

Jane watches her, his eyes very, very dark and appreciative, and she can feel heat pooling in her chest, lapping near her heart.

"You gonna come in?" she asks from her desk.

He stares at her for a moment longer, his gaze roaming over her face as she blushes under his scrutiny. He nods and shuts the door behind him, taking a few steps in then gesturing for her to stand up. She walks over to him and looks up questioningly. He grins, takes her wrist to pull her even closer, until she has to lean her head back to look up at him.

She smiles and frowns at the same time, bemused.

"Jane, what -?"

He presses a finger to her lips to shush her, then puts something in her ear, his fingers lingering against her jaw, soft and light. There's a wire connecting it to - an iPod? He puts the other headphone in his ear, then presses play and puts the iPod in his vest pocket.

She hears music in her ear, a familiar tune that causes her chest to expand, her heart swelling until she fears it will burst right out of her ribs. Jane takes her hand in his and places his other one on her waist. She places her free hand on his shoulder, fingers stroking against the soft material of his vest, and presses closer to him, closer closer closer, hiding her face in his shoulder.

She remembers dancing with him to this song before, but it is _so_ much better this time because Jane set it up... just for her. And now she's allowed to press against him, allowed to breathe him in, allowed to pull him closer and slide her fingers in his soft hair and nuzzle against his warm neck.

More than just allowed - he _wants_ her to.

Her smile grows, and she presses it into his skin to hide it.

This is so much better than any extravagant, ostentatious pony. This quiet, private, intimate dance is possibly the best gift she could have received, a gift only for _her_, with no one else in mind.

She hears the words come through, soft and melodic, _"Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me, 'cause I'd already know..."_

The candy had made her heart flutter, but _this_... _these words_...

Her heart lurches, pounding so hard she's sure Jane can feel it.

Jane won't say them to her, won't write them to her, won't sign them to her... but if they're already there, he just has to _play _them to her.

Lisbon blinks rapidly to clear her hot eyes, so overcome with emotion she can't think coherently. She feels simultaneously like she is drowning and soaring, surrounded and buoyed up, heavy and light. She swallows past the lump in her throat and clutches him tighter, pressing her mouth against his ear.

"Me too," she whispers, burying her face in his neck.

Jane tightens his hold on her waist and leans his head on hers. She can feel his smile against her temple.

He presses repeat on the iPod, and the song plays again.


	10. Volume Ten

**Author's Note: The end! I'm kind of sad it's over, honestly. But I'm looking forward to the episode tonight! And I want to thank EVERYONE for reviewing, you guys have no idea how much I appreciate it! So _thank you._**

* * *

><p><strong>THE SOUND OF SILENCE<strong>

**Volume Ten**

_In the attitude of silence the soul finds its path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. _

_- Mahatma Gandhi_

* * *

><p>Lisbon may be denying it, but she is well aware that things between them aren't perfect.<p>

While they are together, in their own way, at the same time they are_ not_.

They never kiss.

He never stays over.

(She never asks him to, though sometimes she wants to so badly her skin aches with longing.)

They linger on the edge between friends and _something more_, crossing forward then doubling back, never straying too far into either territory.

Sometimes she wants to know why he is so hesitant to make that final leap.

Other times, when she is feeling self-conscious and unsure about his feelings, she thinks that maybe she would rather not know, that she would rather live in denial. He's not... ashamed of her, is he? She knows she's not the best relationship material, that she's got some serious personal issues - but so does he. So that can't be it, can it?

She had thought he would be very public about their 'relationship,' with grand gestures and ostentatious displays of affection designed just to embarrass and annoy her. She had thought he would delight at the chance to make her blush and tease her in front of everyone.

If anything, though, he is now more intensely private than ever.

When it is just them he is intimate and sweet - and, yes, impish and irritating - but in public he denies any sort of flirting at all.

And at the back of her mind, always lingering, that ominous shadow hovers over her thoughts, waiting for her to confront Jane about his silence.

One day Van Pelt straight up asks her about him, says, "Are you and Jane seeing each other?"

The worlds tumble out before she can stop them, and she goes white as a ghost. She raises a hand to her mouth, looking horrified, and stutters, "I'm - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ask that, it just came out - it's none of my business - it's just the guys were wondering and then I came to see you and -"

Lisbon gets over her shock and pulls herself together.

"Van Pelt, 's alright, don't worry 'bout it."

Van Pelt catches sight of Jane lying on Lisbon's couch and flushes even more. "Oh, wow, I'm sorry..."

She trails off, but it is obvious she is still curious about the answer.

So is Lisbon, if she is being entirely honest.

Old Jane would have possibly gone along with it and tried to convince everyone they were dating (even if they weren't) just for the sake of amusement, but New Jane reacts oppositely. He sits up, raises his eyebrows incredulously, and shakes his head, looking at Van Pelt as if she's gone crazy.

Lisbon feels like someone has kicked her in the gut, a strange painful tug on her insides, but she goes along with him.

"It's no big deal, Van Pelt. And no, we're not seeing each other, of course not. Why would you ever think we were?"

She also acts as if Van Pelt is nuts.

"I don't know - just, you guys..."

"Never mind," cuts in Lisbon before Van Pelt can explain. "We're not. And tell Rigsby and Cho to call off that stupid bet - I don't like having gossip follow me around. And go home - it's way too late to still be here."

"Sure, Boss," replies Van Pelt meekly, then ducks out of her office.

Lisbon is reluctant to face Jane, scared that her emotions will be written clearly across her face, so she busies herself at her desk. She finds it hard to concentrate though, running Jane's reaction over and over again in her mind, like a film loop.

No, they're not seeing each other.

Well, fine.

_Fine_.

She can hear Jane stand up and she tenses, refusing to look at him. He walks over to her, kneels down by her chair, and takes her chin with his fingers, turning her head to face him. She looks at a point somewhere above his shoulder. He leans closer, staring into her eyes, trying to reforge their connection and get something across. Her gaze flicker between his eyes and his shoulder, trying and failing to understand, then she looks down at the floor.

She _hates_ that he can read her this well, that he only needs one look to tell exactly what she is feeling.

He leans closer and presses his lips to her cheek, lingering. An apology. She closes her eyes and savors the touch, feeling, as she often does, that it may be the last. He presses another kiss to her cheek, lower down where her dimple is, hovering just shy of touching her lips.

Lisbon goes still, waiting to see what he will do, feeling like her nerve endings are on fire.

He hesitates, his lips lingering against her skin, and she holds her breath.

He draws back, gives her a sad little smile.

She gazes into his eyes, frowning, her thoughts racing a mile a minute. He wanted to kiss her, she can tell. She can see it on him, is starting to be able to read him the way he reads her.

So why didn't he?

He makes as if to stand up, but she reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him, her fingers firm against the material of his vest. He looks up.

"Wait, Jane," she says, pausing to lick her lips. This is it, this is the moment - she can't put it off any longer. "We need to talk."

Her voice is serious, but gentle, both reassuring and a little scared at the same time. Her throat feels raw, her pulse skittering in her veins like a frightened critter. Jane gazes back, frowning but not surprised, before he nods his head and leans back against her desk, half-sitting on it. He looks just as apprehensive as she feels.

Lisbon walks over to lock the door, then sits back down in her chair. There is silence for a long moment as she tries to sort out her thoughts, searching for how to start.

"I got your message," she ends up saying.

Jane's gaze sharpens, intent and focused on her. His body goes very still, waiting for her to continue.

"I got it," she repeats. "I mean, I understood - understand. Why you're not talking."

Jane doesn't move, his eyes trained on hers.

She swallows, trying to soothe her dry throat, then sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, fully aware that it makes her overbite more pronounced but unable to prevent the nervous tic.

"You know it's not true, right?" she says carefully, her voice small and gentle, as if soothing a child.

Jane stares back.

"_You_ didn't kill your family, Jane."

He visibly flinches, casting his gaze down to the floor, hiding from her.

"I know you feel like your words did, but it isn't true. And I wish I could promise you that it won't happen again, that you'll never have to experience that kind of grief, but that isn't how the world works. Things happen, you can't control it."

He swallows, still avoiding her eyes, the way he always does when he feels exposed and vulnerable. Her chest aches, a pull on her heart that wants to reach out to him.

She stands up out of her chair and takes a step forwards, stopping just in front of him. She ducks her head a little until he finally looks at her.

"But if anything does happen," she continues, her voice soft, "it _won't_ be because of your words."

He slants his eyes to the side, looking away. She steps even closer, standing between his legs, the fabric of her shirt just brushing against his vest, his body heat seeping across the distance to warm her. She places a hand on each side of his head, her fingers sliding into his hair, and turns his face until he can't avoid her.

"It's okay to speak, Jane. Nothing bad is gonna happen because of you speaking."

He swallows, but doesn't tear his eyes away. Her fingertips stroke against his scalp, a calming motion that soothes both of them.

"Nothing bad is going to happen to me," she whispers.

She had guessed correctly.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against hers, slumping heavily, as if he can't bear to hold himself up anymore. Her fingers keep combing through his hair and she closes her eyes as well, lost in pure sensation as Jane's hands slide along her waist to her back, pulling her closer, closer, until nothing can pass between them, not even air.

She pulls on his hair a little, tugging just enough to draw his head back so she can look at him again. His eyes are clear but red, light and troubled as they stare back at her.

"But you know that already, don't you?" she continues gently.

He swallows, nods, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, gaping like a fish. She has never seen him look this frustrated with himself, this close to losing it; she can feel his fingers tensing against her waist, scrunching the material of her shirt.

"Hey, shh, it's okay," she soothes hurriedly. "'It's alright. I'm not gonna make you speak."

He presses his nose against the skin of her neck, dipping his head to kiss it, hot shivers erupting over her skin. She has to try very hard to focus, to concentrate in order to speak coherently.

"You know that, but you don't... feel it?" she tries, her voice as delicate as glass.

She can feel more than see him nod against her neck. Her fingers slide down from his hair to rest against his shoulders, where she strokes her thumbs against the smooth material of his vest.

"Okay. Okay, I'm not gonna make you talk. Just - I want you to know - I mean, I can't promise nothing is ever gonna happen to me. I'm a cop - bad things happen. But if anything does, it won't be because of something _you_ did. _You're_ not a danger to me, Jane," she whispers.

He heaves a shuddering sigh, pressing tighter against her, his face buried in her collarbone. She nuzzles her chin against the top of his hair, her fingers smoothing over his shoulders.

"You don't need to talk now - there's no rush. When you're ready," she continues softly. "I just want you to think about that, alright? Just think about it."

He pulls his head back and stares at her, his eyes light and wet, intently serious - or perhaps seriously intent. He nods, holding her gaze, then his gaze drop to her lips. Her heart skips a beat. He lowers his head a fraction of an inch and she raises hers almost imperceptibly, drawn together, closer, closer, breathing each other's air, closer, closer...

"You aren't going to hurt me," she whispers against his mouth.

He gives in.

He kisses her, his faint stubble searing her skin, his wet tongue burning her mouth, his warm lips melting seamlessly against hers.

This feeling of utter _rightness_, of belonging, of harmony, crests over her so strongly that she almost staggers from the force of it.

_Nothing_ has ever felt like this for her. This is coming home, this is the way the world is meant to be, everything is in its right place, and she nevereverever wants to let go, never wants to give up this feeling, never wants to lose it.

"Mm," she whimpers against his mouth, and he kisses her harder, more desperately, his fingers coming up to frame her face, clutching on as if he can't get close enough.

She breaks away, gasping for air, and Jane takes the opportunity to latch on to her neck, trailing kisses down to her collarbone, sucking on her pulse point.

"Oh, God, Jane," she moans.

"Hmm," he agrees, humming against her skin, the vibrations traveling through her nerves and lighting them on fire.

He stumbles backwards and she automatically follows, landing on top of him on the couch - thank God the blinds are closed - and kissing him urgently. He threads his fingers through her hair gently, and the kiss dwindles into something softer, slower, but all the more heartfelt. She wants to climb inside him, wants to curl around him, wants to merge their two souls until they can't be separated.

Instead, she kisses his jaw and, hiding her eyes, whispers in his ear, "I love you."

It is the first time she has said the words aloud.

She had hinted at them before, sure, but it's different to actually hear them in their totality.

She can't remember the last time she had said these words - to _anyone_. It's almost frightening, how anxious they make her feel.

Jane goes still, then wraps his arms around her and presses his hands against her back, pullingher tighter against him, squishing her, so tight that she almost struggles to breathe. She doesn't care. She hugs him back, pressing impossibly nearer, sitting on his lap and arching against his chest and breathing in his neck. She has never felt closer to him, in all senses of the word.

Jane's breath is shallow and slow in her ear, before he tugs her a little backwards to look at her. She stares at him, her pulse thin and thready, her eyes hot and wet. She can see every single one of his thick blond eyelashes, the faint flecks of grey in his irises, the tiny, fine lines around his eyes.

He takes one hand off her back and rests his palm against her chest, directly above her heart, his touch firm and warm. She can feel her heart beating inside, as if just his presence is enough to make it stronger.

"I get it," she whispers.

He flashes the briefest of grins, his eyes crinkling up, before his face drops into something serious, intent, warm.

He kisses her, slow and deep, gentle and soft, cradling the back of her head and stroking along her waist. She lets her fingers slide into his hair, smooth over his shoulders, fist in the material of his shirt.

She shifts in his lap and he groans, his fingers clenching in her hair.

Their next kiss is slightly off, because she is smirking and he is distracted.

She wants to hear that sound again.

She sits down more fully, straddling him completely. He breaks the kiss and leans his head back against the couch, his eyes clenched shut and his mouth gaping a little open.

God, that's hot.

She presses her lips against his, slides her tongue along his, and he pushes harder against her back, his hands dipping dangerously low. His fingers skim against the waistband of her pants, slipping just inside, before they both pause, panting heavily, trying to read each other as they dangle on the precipice of something they won't be able to come back from.

Something they don't _want_ to come back from.

"Yes," she breathes.

He kisses her, his hands cupping her neck, brushing along her shoulders, down her ribs, across her waist. She tugs on his hair, hard, and he groans again before ever so slowly pulling the bottom of her shirt up, his fingers lingering against her skin. He tosses it to the floor, along with her bra, then trails his fingertips up her ribs. He reaches her shoulders and brushes her hair back gently, laying a kiss on her collarbone, then pulls his head up and pauses.

Lisbon opens her eyes to find him staring at her bullet scar.

It's much paler now, smaller and smoother, but it's a still a visible reminder that Red John nearly got her too. She knows that that is what he is thinking, can tell from the careful way he soothes the skin, the infinitely soft and tender kiss he brushes against the mark.

Her heart feels too big for her chest, and there's a lump in her throat that she tries to swallow.

Jane wraps his arms around her torso and buries his face in her skin, taking a simple moment to just _be_, an intimate instance in which they breathe each other in and appreciate the fact that they _can_.

Their movements are gentle, achingly slow, embers glowing inside of them. This is so much more than just sex. This is vulnerability, trust, care, _love_, connection, closer closer closer, nearer nearer dearer. This is two control freaks losing control, _allowing themselves_ to lose control because they know the other will catch them, will look after them, will cherish them with every fibre of their being.

Lisbon has always found sex uncomfortably intimate, leaving a part of herself vulnerable and open, unable to hide or control her base reactions. But with Jane, she doesn't even try; she lets herself go, lets herself _feel_, unbidden, untampered, undisciplined. Just her. And him.

The sight of Jane letting himself go, losing himself in her, no mask, no pretense, no restraints, is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

Afterwards, she lies on the couch with her head on his chest, ear listening to his steady heartbeat, sleepy and content, her body humming. She nestles into his skin and closes her eyes for a while, his heartbeat lulling her into a state of near-sleep, half-dream and half-awake, the two worlds merging until it's hard to tell them apart.

What is that sound?

That pounding, like deep bass under the ocean, faster and faster and faster.

"Lisbon..."

"Hmm?" she murmurs sleepily.

She freezes. Her eyes fly open. Her head shoots up, wide eyes staring into Jane's even wider ones. His mouth is open, his gaze wild and frightened, yet very intent.

His heart is racing under her palm, so fast that she half-worries he is having a heart attack.

"Jane?" she whispers.

If possible, his heartbeat picks up even more speed, practically vibrating. He swallows, staring unblinkingly at her, and his lips form noiseless words.

"I... I... love you too."

His voice is quiet and husky, hoarse from underuse, but it still has echoes of the smoothness that it used to hold, all honey and velvet. And _Jane_.

It feels so surreal, a deja vu experience that brings back a million memories, staggering her with emotion. Her eyes are hot, her throat tight, her heart swelling to unimaginable proportions, warmth seeping through her blood.

He wipes his thumb against her cheek and it comes away wet.

"Did you just -?" she starts to ask, but her voice breaks before she can finish.

He is still staring at her, one hand on her cheek and the other on her back, holding her to him. That frightened look enters his eyes again, that light but shadowed gleam, like a hunted animal. She can feel his erratic pulse skittering under her hand.

He swallows, shakes his head, and stutters, "I - I can't -"

She seriously fears he will scare himself to death, his heartbeat shaking, his skin pale, his eyes sliding away with shame.

But it's enough. It's _enough_.

"Hey, 's okay, 's okay," she murmurs, pulling his head back to face her. "It's okay, Jane. Take your time. You don't have to do everything tonight."

She still can't believe how far he has come tonight, in the space of a few hours. She has never been this proud of anyone.

He looks at her, gives her the slightest of nods and the faintest of smiles. His grip tightens, his eyes turning warm. She kisses his cheek, his lips, settling back against his chest and resting her head in his neck.

"One step at a time, okay?" she murmurs, her voice quiet and delicate, almost child-like.

She can feel him nod against her hair, his pulse settling down, his skin warming against hers. He laces their fingers together.

One step at a time.

Silence swirls in the room around them but this time, she knows, it will be only be temporary.


End file.
